


How To Live With Your Best Friend

by coughcough



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety Disorder, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emetophobia, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Movie: IT (2017), Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), NSFW, Not IT Chapter Two Compliant, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reddie, Slice of Life, Stan Uris Lives, but trigger warnings at the top of each chapter if they apply, no archive warnings, oh my god and they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coughcough/pseuds/coughcough
Summary: You may love him, but he’s not the way you left him.Or, Richie and Eddie figuring out how to live with each other's trauma ridden asses after Chapter Two._Rated E for language, NSFW content, and in-depth depictions of mental health struggles.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 65
Kudos: 217





	1. How to ask Your Best Friend to Move in with You

‘I can’t fuckin’ afford New York rent, geez, I know I’m famous but that doesn’t just, like, pay the bills, I mean, you’d figure that after I got on Conan it’d be smooth sailing on a yacht of made of millions, but no- nope.’ Richie rants, barely holding onto the iced latte that had cost him seven dollars. ‘And what the fuck is a credit score by the way, and why does a bad one mean I can’t get a loan?’

‘Huh, you know what would fix that?’ Eddie asks, stirring his non-fat milk into his own reasonably priced two-dollar coffee. He’d even told the barista to leave some room, saving him another dollar on milk and Splenda. Richie had pulled Eddie aside and asked, very concerned if he knew that the baristas would just do it for you. Richie had also tipped the sweet barista with a crumpled five he’d dragged out of his pocket, spending a total of 12 dollars on some fucking caffeine. Eddie had to wonder how on earth this forty-year-old man was functioning- or at least who the fuck was handling his finances because something was up if the guy thought he was broke.

‘We could rob a bank. That would do it. El Banditos, go in guns blazing,’ Richie said, miming a finger gun with his spare hand before going into a 20’s gangster voice. ‘Hands in the sky, bub, put the money in the bag, wontcha’ toots? And then you could just, like, stand there, just like you're doing now. It’d be great.’

‘You could move in with me, I was thinking.’ Eddie says, answering his question. Richie drops the impression cold. Eddie tosses out the wooden stirrer and puts a lid on his cup and takes a sip.

‘Really?’ He asks. Eddie nods. ‘Seriously?’

‘No, I’m _fucking_ with you.’ Eddie says sarcastically. Richie’s face falls for half a second before the joke clicks. He lets out a winded sounding guffaw. ‘Myra and I had, uh, a spare arts and crafts room, and her scrapbooks aren’t taking it up anymore, so yeah, if you wanna move in, do it.’

‘Are you sure?’ Richie asks again, surprised dropped and that rare serious side reserved for contract negotiations with big wheel agents shines through.

‘Dude, yes. Do you wanna move in or not?’

‘Um, fuck yeah!’ Richie swings an arm out, barely avoiding decking a fellow customer. He launches into a voice that’s not quite a six-year old boy and not quite a thirteen-year-old girl. ‘We can have sleepovers, an’ we can watch movies, an’ we can talk about booooys, an’ we can make pizza rolls, an’- an’-an’ we can-‘

‘Fuckin’ shut the fuck up, dude, we’re nearly senior citizens.’

'Wait. We’re nearly seniors? I thought we were twenty-two. I feel twenty-two. Are you sure we’re old?’ Richie says, deadpan, only breaking with laughter when Eddie groans.

*

‘That doesn’t go there.’ Eddie says when Richie places one of his moving boxes in the hallway. Eddie kept the hallways clear, clean. What if you were walking down one and tripped? What if you were walking through one and one of the floorboards was broken, and a hole ripped through the floor, and you fell through and broke your arm? Keep the hallways clean and clear and that doesn’t happen. Make sure the super comes to inspect the apartment every month. These buildings were not new in any way shape or form- they were prone to falling apart at any second.

‘Yeah, I’ll move it in just a sec, don’t get your lace thong in a twist.’ Richie calls from the doorway, carrying even more of his things in. Eddie didn’t know that Richie would have this much stuff and the apartment is feeling smaller and with smaller every box that makes its way past the threshold. They were full of junk, comic books, toys (figurines, Richie would say), one box was just full of CDs. It was 2016, why on earth did he feel the need to keep goddam CDs?

‘I wear boxers-‘ Eddie begins to say.

‘No more tightie whities?’ Richie teases as he makes his way up to Eddie, holding yet another box. Eddie blushes, certain that half the building can hear Richie’s comments. They were already two men, one divorced and one never married, living together. Don’t make it weird, dude.

‘They lower your sperm count and Myra and I were trying to have- fuck, Rich, just get your shit out of the hallway.’ And Eddies not sure if that made little infertility slip made Richie more sympathetic to Eddie’s need for a clean hallway or because Eddie hadn’t laughed at his joke, but Richie obliges.

‘It’ll be clear in a sec.’ Richie says, pushing past Eddie to his new room. Eddie turns and is standing in Richie’s doorway.

‘I can help you unpack.’ Eddie offers. Richie puts down the box he was carrying and then stretches his arms out behind his back. Eddie can hear Richie’s bones popping- that causes arthritis, that’s what his mother always told him. Richie’s t-shirt (on the front ‘Frank’s Red Hot’ is emblazoned, and on the back, it’s a red blotch of cartoon hot sauce with a faded golden ‘Spicy!’) lifts slightly, showing his belly button. Then Richie lets out a sigh, puts his hands on his hips and looks at all the boxes he has piled everywhere, shirt still stuck over his tummy. Eddie feels a dash of colour reach his cheeks.

‘If you wanna.’ Richie says. ‘Just don’t make me throw anything out, I’m a hoarder.’

‘I kinda got that from the huge amount of stuff, dude.’

‘I get it from my great-great-great grandfather.’ Richie continues.

‘Yeah? What’s his name?’ Eddie presses. Richie pauses.

‘Gur… Gurney Tozier. Founding father.’ He bullshits. Eddie laughs.

‘Right, right! I remember learning about him in history class- didn’t he murder, like, ten people?’ Eddie asks, making his way into Richie’s new room.

‘No, no, you're confusing him with his father, my great-great-great-great-grandfather, um, Jurney Tozier. Slaughtered a shit-ton of people for their land. Hilarious.’

‘Just like his great-great-great-great grandson. All a bunch of comedians.’ Eddie says. Eddie’s hand has taken its signature position, looking like a shark fin next to his face. Richie bats his hand away with a slo-mo karate chop, accompanied by what Eddie thinks is Richie’s version of a ninja sound. ‘Alright, let’s Marie Kondo your shit.’

‘Who the fuck is that?’ Richie huffs, in the process of trying to land a slo-mo roundhouse on Eddie, teetering on one leg.

‘She wrote this book about tidying up. It was a bestseller.’ Eddie supplies. Richie gives him a clueless look as his foot lightly connects with Eddie’s side. Eddie grabs it in a swift motion, locking Richie’s leg. Richie’s balance immediately falters and he plants a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to catch himself from falling on his ass.

‘What the fuck,’ He breathes. Then a joke comes to his mind and before he can even spit it out he laughs. ‘Not the first time I’ve been in this position.’

Eddie drops his leg and fakes gagging. In the back of his head he thinks that doesn’t make any sense, that’s not even a sex position, and he wants to say that but he knows if he keeps entertaining Richie’s jokes no unpacking will get done and that box in the hallway is peeking at him from the doorframe and it’s really getting under his skin. ‘Just bring in the rest of your shit, please.’

‘Gotcha, Captain K.’ Richie shoots a pair of finger guns at him, accompanied by a wink. Richie moves past Eddie and exits the room. He nudges the hallway box into his room with his foot then exits the apartment. Eddie dreads that there are even more things to come in.

And Eddie does love Richie, they’re best friends, practically family, but maybe the tiniest bit of him is nervous. Then again, he was always nervous. For as long as he can remember, he’s been nervous. That perpetual edge of anxiety that never leaves and is never actually realized, a constant thrumming engine not quiet enough to be silent but not loud enough to drive him insane. His mother said it gave him stomach cramps and was the reason for his headaches, that he worried too much- but isn’t that what you wanted Ma? Myra had given him valerian root for it, dispensed in cups of tea before bedtime after the Jeopardy re-runs.

_Sad to see Myra go, Eddie-Bear. She was so good for you._

He knows, Ma. She took care of him. She just didn’t get it. He couldn’t stay with her after he got back from Derry. Too much had changed, too much had been realized.

_You have nobody to look after for you now- what if something happens? If you choke on an aspirin? You’d die._

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. She’s right. Last time Eddie checked, Richie doesn’t know the Heimlich. The other half of Eddie says that he doesn’t take aspirins because they’re blood-thinners, so that’s not something he has to worry about. Then the other-other half of Eddie responds with what if you choke on your dinner? On a sip of water? Twenty-five thousand people die every year from choking when drinking water, you could be one of them.

_Get her back. Twelve years of marriage for nothing! She’s the only one who can take care of you like I could, Eddie! You need her!_

Eddie shakes his head no, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could make the voice in his head go away. If Myra was the only one for him, he’d rather he’d have died in the Cisterns.

A few hours later Richie’s room is even more of a mess then when they started. Richie keeps saying to get something clean you gotta make a mess first, and he’s right in a logical sense, but god this was such a mess Eddie could never imagine this room being clean again. Richie holds up a small Batman figurine and waves it at Eddie for evaluation, the slow process of going through every single item Richie owns and deciding what to do with it. The ‘donate’ and ‘throw-away’ piles weren’t half as big as Eddie would like them to be this late in the game.

‘Donate it.’ Eddie says. Richie makes a hurt face.

‘This guy has been with me since college. No way.’ Richie counters, placing the figure on a much too big ‘keep’ pile. Eddie lets out a heavy sigh.

‘You’ve said that about the past sixteen items. How big was your dorm?’ He says, adjusting the way he was sitting. He was getting pins and needles in his legs, which could mean sciatica, he had read that on WebMD, and he didn’t want to risk it.

Richie watches Eddie adjust. ‘Like, an inch. And then I had a roomie, so half an inch. A.K.A. how big your dick is. Sorry.’

‘You don’t need all this stuff, dude.’

‘But I don’t not need it.’ Richie counters and Eddie can feel a migraine coming on.

‘Be real with me. Why not just sell all of this? I bet you don’t even use any of these things.’ Eddie says, trying to level with Richie, who had a habit of evading the serious by joking his way out of it. He’d been like that as a kid and twenty-seven years later was still the same.

Richie shrugs.

_See, he’s dirty Eddie-Bear. He’s not clean. I always told you and now look at what you’ve gone and done. You’ve put him on the lease._

‘Maybe we should just go to bed for the night.’ Eddie proposes. He can see that its dark outside through Richie’s window. There wasn’t much of a view of the famous New York Skyline, only about eight floors up from the street level, but it wasn’t too bad. They got a nice view of the river.

‘Geez, sorry, I guess.’ Richie says barely concealing his snark. Eddie thought he sounded like a petulant teenager and wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing a bit or not. Richie sees the look Eddies giving him and buries his face in his hands, letting out a groan. He quiets for the moment, inhaling. Eddie realizes his toes are going tingly again and he switches his stance.

Richie finally looks back up at Eddie. ‘I just gotta habit of holding onto things, I guess.’

Eddie thinks that Richie might say more, add onto that thought, but he goes quiet again, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

_Oh, get him a Kleenex, please, Eddie. He’ll give you the flu._

It’s not flu season, Ma. Please be quiet.

‘Look, I’ll just try again tomorrow, you don’t have to help, dude. I know you hate how messy it gets.’ Richie says. He readjusts his glasses and pushes himself onto his feet, sticking out a hand to help Eddie up. The same hand he just wiped his nose with. Eddie takes it and stands up, subtly wiping his own hand on his pants leg once they disconnect.

‘No, I’ll help.’ Eddie says. Richie really did need all the help he could get.

‘It actually might be better if you don’t.’ Richie says, and for some reason, Eddie feels like a high-schooler getting dumped at the prom.

‘Okay.’ Eddie responds, and to show there are no hard feelings (because geez, wouldn’t it be weird to have hard feelings about not being able to sort through your best friend’s massive piles of junk and shit?) pulls Richie into a side hug. Richie gives him a half-hearted smile and claps Eddie on the back.

'Sleep well, Eddie-Spaghetti.’

Eddie tries to, but he’s stuck with a weird feeling. He’d been living alone for two months. After he got back from Derry he managed to keep it together with Myra for a week before he blew up and mentioned that he’d be happier if they had never gotten married. Myra had cried and he had slept on the couch and asked for a divorce the next morning. He was still tied up in court proceedings, but she was out of the apartment and staying at her sister’s. The bed felt bigger than what he was used too and now there was another body just a door down, a heavy-footed body who was up at two A.M. for some reason Eddie couldn’t discern. It was like the apartment was haunted, but in a good way because it wasn’t a poltergeist or killer clown, it was his friend, and Eddie wonders if Richie has always been this much of a mess.

He can’t remember Richie’s odd hours as a kid- if he had even had them. Or the way Richie would finish a six-pack every other evening. Or the way he’d leave the towel on the bathroom floor after every shower after Eddie had convinced him to shower daily (I don’t even sweat that much, Eds. Three times a week is fine!). Eddie would stare up at the ceiling, listening to the man walking around in his room or walking back and forth from the kitchen. Richie said he tried his hardest to be quiet but Richie’s idea of quiet was very different from Eddie’s idea of quiet.

A week later, Richie had mostly settled in. He had managed to get rid of a few boxes of his things and set up his room to his liking. It was messy but Eddie didn’t have much of a reason to be in there, so he tried not to think about it. It stuck in the back of his head that just behind Richie’s door was a world of clutter and junk Eddie could do nothing about. Each morning, during Eddie’s morning meditation, in which he’d sit cross-legged and straight-backed on his bedroom floor and empty his mind to the best of his abilities, it nagged at him like a small dog with anger issues. Rot festering and he couldn’t do anything about it. Richie, amid that rod, unable to help himself. His skin crawled at the thought.

Eddie in no way regretted asking Richie to live with him. They were probably both better off with someone else in the house, bound to go insane if left alone, but there were so many things that Richie would do that drove Eddie insane. The odd hours, first of all. Eddie needed eight hours of sleep and with the stomping, he’d only get six hours, which he tracked to the minute on his FitBit. Each morning he’d get a report of his sleep and start the day annoyed if it was any less than eight. Then, the dishes. Richie would cook (and cook well, surprisingly) but he’d always leave a mess everywhere. He’d somehow get ketchup on the ceiling or he’d put the carrot peelings in the recycling rather than the green bin and everything was always put back where it wasn’t supposed to go.

_I told you so, sweetie._

It wasn’t always clear if it was his mother or his wife speaking.


	2. How to Jerk Off When You Have an Annoying Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: nsfw content as implied in the title, graphic re-living of past abuse, panic attacks, vomiting

Richie is in the kitchen with his headphones on, humming some song Eddie couldn’t quite recognize as he walks into the room, unnoticed by Richie who has his head stuck in the fridge blocking Eddie’s path to the disinfectant wipes. Eddie gently places his hand on Richie’s side to guide him out of the way and Richie, startled, bangs his head on the top of the fridge.

‘Fuck!’ He shouts, pulling his head out and slamming the fridge door in one fluid motion. With Eddie pressed against the island counter, there’s very little space in-between them as Richie presses his back up against the fridge. One of Richie’s earbuds had fallen out and Eddie can make out the song Richie is listening too.

‘Defying Gravity?’ Eddie asks.

‘My heart is fucking pounding dude, don’t do that shit.’

Richie’s eyes are wide behind his frames and Eddie can see his own reflection in them. Eddie can see Richie’s broad chest rising and falling at an accelerated rate. He can smell Richie’s 2in1 shampoo body wash.

‘You're real fuckin’ jumpy, dude.’ Eddie says. Richie was staring at him.

‘No, I’m not.’ He responds, not looking away from Eddie.

'I need the wipes.’ Eddie says.

‘Okay.’

'They’re behind you.’

Richie turns and grabs the wipes from their spot on top of the fridge and hands them to Eddie, barely breaking eye contact.

‘Thanks.’

'No problem.’ Richie says, still focused on Eddie.

‘I’m gonna go to the washroom now.’

‘Right. Have fun.’

Eddie eases himself out from the tiny and tense spot between the two of them. He knows that Richie is still staring at him as he walks away, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Richie hears Eddie’s slippered feet pad down the hallway, into the washroom, and turn the lock on the door. The shower starts.

Richie can still feel his heart caught in his chest, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. The internet had said to try to breathe normally and you’d stop freaking out. There’s nothing fucking here, dumbass. It was just Eddie. Think about the things around you. Kitchen, you’re in the kitchen. Eddie’s kitchen, but technically the two of you share it now. The tiles are green. The floor is cold. It smells like dish soap and the way Eddie smells, kinda like dry wood and kinda like a blanket. He’s still breathing heavily, trying to get back to normal. Breathe now, okay?

_In, One… two… three… four._

_Out, One… two... three… four. Again._

_In, One… two... three… four._

_Out, One… two... three… four._

_Okay. We’re fine. We’re in New York. We’re not in Derry. You’re okay and nothing can hurt you here. You’re okay and nothing can hurt you here. Say it._

‘I’m okay and nothing can hurt me here.’ Richie says, barely louder than a whisper.

_One more time._

‘I’m okay and nothing can hurt me here.’ He repeats, still quiet, but believing it a tad bit more this time.

Richie puts a hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes underneath his glasses. The kettle lets out a beep and Richie is prompted to start moving again. He can’t stay still forever. Gotta keep going. He pours the boiling water into a mug with NYU’s logo on it. He liked that mug because he could pretend he was a college graduate whenever he drank from it. Richie had to convince Eddie not to throw it away- it’d had been his graduation gift from Myra all the way back in ’99.

Now it was Richie’s. Idina hits her famous note in Richie’s left ear and shuffle switches the song into something off of Nirvana’s Unplugged album.

_Since when have I been this sensitive?_ Richie has to ask himself as pours a packet of instant coffee into the hot water of his mug, the nicer coffee grounds into Eddie’s mug (an ‘I <3 N.Y.’ that Eddie had had since he moved into the place). It didn’t make any sense why he was acting like such a baby. It was over now. Everyone else had moved on. Bev and Ben were somewhere in Italy on a boat, looking like models. Stan had knocked Patty up. Mike and Bill were somewhere in Arizona, one-stop into their road trip around America.

There wasn’t a threat looming over Richie, there was no longer any risk that his few loved ones would get their limbs eaten off, or that Paul Bunyan would start swinging at him, or that he’d be a lonely thirteen-year-old kid in an arcade, because, Christ, he was a forty-year-old man who should be over all this by now. It was over, he should be over it, and it had been three months, so why did it still feel like his world was ending?

Every time the subway tracks squealed in a certain way he’d get all sweaty in a cold way. Some mornings he’d wake up and just have to vomit. It always felt like his ribs were on two sizes too tight and when the floorboards creaked the wrong way he’d feel his heart begging to escape his chest, afraid that something would be lurking around the corner. Bowers, maybe, but he was dead. Richie had made sure of that, hadn’t he? So not only was he a mess, but he was also a murde- Richie felt bile rise in his throat.

_Hurk!_

_Great aim, bud. Straight into the sink._

Eddie, meanwhile, jerked off in the shower. Entirely unrelated to his roommate staring at him in that way, just that a man has urges and he has to be at work in an hour and he’d rather not be ‘on’ in that way all day. Did he feel guilty that his roommate was just one wall of plaster and steel away from him?

_This is disgusting, Eddie._

‘God, shut the fuck up, please, both of you.’ Eddie says through gritted teeth, the hot water pelting at his shoulders as he tugged at himself.

_Masturbation causes cancer_ , his mother says.

_You should only be thinking of me,_ his wife says.

‘Ex-wife.’ Eddie reminds, determined.

_Do you want cancer, Eddie? This is how you get cancer._

_I should be the only one who satisfies you, Eddie-bear._

‘Shut up.’ He grunts.

_Quit this, please! It’s not good for you!_

_What are you even doing, Eddie? You need me! You need my help!_

‘Shut up!’

_Hey, Eds, your coffee is gonna be in the kitchen._

‘What?’ Eddie shouts.

‘Your coffee is gonna be in the kitchen. Don’t let it get cold.’ Richie calls through the door. Eddie can imagine him, still in his pyjamas on the other side of the door with his own mug. Eddie’s NYU mug. That he gave to his friend. His friend who brewed him a cup of coffee out of the goodness of his heart. 

If Richie knew what he was doing he’d be disgusted. Eddie takes his hand off himself, sticking it under the jets of hot water. Wash it away.

‘Right, thanks!’ Eddie calls back, voice taut. Once Eddie hears Richie moving down the hallway, Eddie groans in defeat placing his head against the cool tile. This wasn’t gonna happen today. Not that it ever really ‘happened’. When he was with Myra he’d maybe done it ten or so times over the course of a 12-year marriage and five years of dating. The nights he was brave enough (or depraved enough) to take his laptop into his study as she slept in their bed and type in some filthy website name. Most times he’d chicken out before the page even loaded, slamming his laptop shut and crawling back into bed with his tail between his legs, ashamed that he had thought he could even attempt _that._

The few times he had made it past the ‘Please Confirm You Are Over the Age of 18’ he’d load up a video, videos he would never dream of looking at in the light of day and would banish from his search history as soon as the deed was done, and then chicken out as soon as the men would start to go at it. He couldn’t do that to his wife.

And the very few times he had actually managed to get the video playing (usually on the lucky occasion his work would put him up in a hotel, Myra far far away) and have his pants around his ankles he’d be proud of himself, sickly. That he could do _this_ and that his wife, or his mother, couldn’t take this private thing away from him, no matter how hard they tried. Believe him, they had tried.

_I’m just looking out for you, Eddie-bear._

Eddie thinks he might cry from the frustration, gently slamming his forehead against the tiles. He’s thirteen years old and his mom has just walked in on him because he forgot to lock the bathroom door (his own bedroom didn’t even have a lock on the door, she had made sure it was removed) and now she’s scrubbing at his skin with a tough wooden brush. He feels like every pore on his body is being torn apart from all the harsh bristles. Then she hands him the brush and tells him to take care of the rest of himself and Eddie expects her to leave the room on the hope that this might be over but Ma stands there, waiting. She gives a look and he starts scrubbing at his own skin as lightly as he could, already pink all over.

_Try harder to get the filth away, Eddie. Don’t cry, you did this to yourself._

He’s thirteen and he knows that moms shouldn’t be helping their son shower at thirteen but he doesn’t say anything because she’s helping him. She keeps him safe and she keeps him clean and she makes sure he never succumbs to the sicknesses inside him. Present-day Eddie shivers. 

And then Myra is in front of him, in the first apartment they had shared when they were twenty-three, after walking in on him. She screams, then starts crying. Eddie nearly trips over himself getting into his pants as he rushes to comfort her.

_Am I not enough for you?_ She cries, tears spilling over her cheeks. Eddie says that she is, she is enough and that he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, but she pulls away and walks to the pill cabinet. Then she’s grabbing a handful of Eddie’s clear orange bottles, unscrewing the caps and walking over to the sink as Eddie tries to get her to stop what she’s doing. Then the pills, holy shit, she’s dumping his pills, he needs those, Myra! What the fuck are you doing?

_Don’t yell at me!_

Sorry, sorry, I need those, Myra, please stop. Eddie’s beside her, trying to pull her away from the sink without hurting her. Myra, please. Eddie sinks to his knees, grabbing at her nightgown. Myra, please, he says again. Myra stills her actions but still vibrates with heavy sobs as Eddie clings to her from the ground. I love you, I’m sorry.

_You don’t mean that._

I do.

_You can’t do that. If you love me, you won’t._

I won’t. I love you.

Myra turns her body from the sink and takes Eddie’s head in her hands, tucking him deeper into her body. The sobs calm as she holds him, running fingers through his hair, tracing every part of his face, making sure he belonged to her. Not to the humping figures in the video, not to anyone he couldn’t remember in Derry, not even to his mother. He was hers now. 

‘Dude, you’re gonna be late for work.’ Richie calls through the door. Eddie hadn’t heard his steps approaching and jumps slightly. ‘What are you even doing in there? Are you jerkin’ it?’

‘Are you seriously fucking twelve, Richie?’ Eddie shouts back, feeling his cheeks turning bright fucking red. ‘That’s fucking… That’s so disgusting! No!’

‘When you’re not here I jerk off in your bedroom,’ Richie says, so blasé that Eddie thinks he might explode. That’s just how Richie talks, you know that. He’d say that to Bill, he’d say that to Bev. For fuck's sake, he’d say that to anyone who’d listen to his crazy ass. Eddie yanks the shower handles and the water stops flowing. ‘And I jerk off in the kitchen, then bare-assed on the dining room table, on your three-thousand-dollar couch- oh, hey.’

Eddie glares at Richie, one hand on the doorknob and the other holding his towel up. 

‘You’re so mad you’re steaming, dude,’ Richie laughs, before adding, ‘You know it’s actually healthy to jerk it, it lets out all the stress. You need the relief, Eds.’

‘Don’t call me that.’ Eddie growls as he brushes past him, knocking Richie’s shoulder and slamming his bedroom door as soon as he steps inside. Eddie can hear Richie laughing in the hallway, saying something about letting loose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> richi b like: i am having a panic attack 
> 
> eddi b like: this is a sexually charged moment and i am now horny 
> 
> thank u for reading


	3. How to Have a Panic Attack During Sex and Still Seem Semi-Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: nsfw content as implied in the title, alcohol use, panic attacks, low self-esteem/depressed thoughts, mentions of r*pe towards the end of the chapter

‘I don’t know, Bev.’ Richie says to his phone, in his bedroom with the door open. Eddie listens to the one-sided conversation from the kitchen because there's no way he can't. Eddie's just trying to feed himself and it's Richie's fault for having the door open, anyway. 

‘Are you seriously trying to peer pressure me into therapy?’

‘I’m fine, really.’

Eddie reaches for the cereal, pushing past Richie’s Lucky Charms and grabbing his box of muesli and a bowl.

‘I’ll be fine. Can we not talk about this?’

'Tell him I send my love. Are you guys still in Italy?’

‘Right, as if.' Richie chuckles. 

Eddie tries to pour the milk as quietly as possible, not entirely sure why he’s listening to the call. Maybe he’s worried. Maybe he’s just snoopy. Maybe Richie should close his door.

'I gotta scram, Bevvie-Baby.’

‘No, he’s fucking not. Love you.’

Were they talking about Eddie? Who's ‘he’? Then he hears Richie getting up from his bed and scrambles to look as casual as possible, leaning against the counter as he eats from his bowl. Then Richie is standing in front of him, and he’s not wearing pyjamas which is weird for a Sunday morning. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, but like, a good pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt.

‘Morning.’ Eddie says.

‘Hey,’ Richie says, so gently Eddie feels his heart skip a beat. ‘If you waited I could have cooked breakfast.’

‘I can feed myself.’

‘The only thing you know how to make is cereal.’ Which is true. Eddie had never had a reason to cook for himself before he and Myra had split.

'Yeah, well, at least it’s healthy cereal. Unlike someone.’

Richie yawns and stretches, groaning as his back muscles extend.

‘Are you going somewhere today?’ Eddie asks, looking Richie’s outfit up and down. His face was clean-shaven and he had his good pair of glasses on.

‘Yeah, Jason needs me to come down and sort some stuff out, then meet with this director. She wants to direct my special.’ Richie answers as he bends down and starts rifling through the fridge. Jason was Richie’s manager. Eddie didn’t like the guy, even though everyone else said they looked and acted the exact same, even though Jason was an annoying asshole. He never shut up. 

‘Why do you need a director for a comedy special? It’s just you on stage the whole time.’ Eddie watches Richie dig around. Those jeans looked good on him.

‘Aw, you make that sound like a bad thing.’ Richie comes back out of the fridge with orange juice in his hand. Eddie puts his bowl down and passes Richie a glass. ‘Is my little Spaghetti jealous?’

‘No.’ Eddie says a little too quickly. Too quickly to even tell Richie off for calling him names. Richie takes the glass from him and Eddie can tell he’s trying not to laugh at him. ‘Why would I be jealous?’

Richie grins. That little half grin he does. ‘I’ll be back for dinner. You wanna order something and watch a movie? Or I could teach you how to make a real, actual meal.’

Eddie nods. That would be nice. It was just nice to have someone sit next to him. Richie, to sit next to him. Sometimes Eddie missed being married, just to have someone be there for him in that way, next to him on the couch after a day at work. He picks up his bowl again.

‘What time are you back?’ He asks, through a mouthful of cereal.

‘Six, I think.’

‘I’ll be here.’

'Then it’s a date.’ Richie says.

Richie has his breakfast then leaves the apartment at ten-thirty. Eddie knows the train ride to Jason’s New York office is forty minutes, so he’d be there at eleven ten. Eddie went for his Sunday afternoon jog. Then Jason and Richie would maybe work for a few hours, Eddie thinks, then get lunch, then it’d be four and Eddie was in his home office catching up on anything he’d forgotten during the week. Then Richie would meet that director. Then it was six and Richie wasn’t home yet and Eddie didn’t know what to do. Then there’s an irking thought:

_He’s forgotten about you._

Eddie’s skin starts to crawl. Think of all the bacteria that live on your skin or in your eyebrows, hair, on your eyelids. Eddie, without thinking to do it, places a hand to his face.

_He’s forgotten about you._

Eddie, still without thinking to do it, opens his pill cabinet. None of the labels are facing forward. 

_He’s forgotten about you. Again._

That bottle of Melatonin is still off-center. He reaches out and straightens it, carefully turning it as to not knock any other bottle out of their tight formation. Eddie misses his aspirator, burnt to plastic crisp back in Derry, buried under Neibolt. He wishes he had it, and he’d take a hit and feel better. His lungs would stop closing up and he’d be able to breathe again. Yeah, he knows its just water, and Richie reminds him of that every time he mentions needing it, but maybe it was just having a tool that could fix everything in seconds that he needed.

_We’d never forget you, Eddie._

Richie winds up in an Italian restaurant, attached to a plush hotel in Midtown. The director, Janice, is sitting across from him ordering them dessert. Richie thinks that maybe she’s flirting with him, but he also doesn’t know why anyone in their right mind would do that. Doesn’t she see him?

Six foot two, but still a giant fat-ass. He had a belly he couldn’t get rid of, even with all of Eddie’s weird exercise tools. He had glasses and a thinning hairline. Oily skin that should have fixed itself once Richie gave puberty a final farewell, but decided to stick around and make his glasses always slipping down his nose, which was too big for his face. The only redeeming quality he had was his humour, which wasn’t even the on par with any of the A-Listers. Fuck, not even on par with the B-Listers.

Richie had thought that once he grew out of his lanky body and got some contacts he might be happy with himself. Then he had thought that if he lost some weight he’d be okay looking, but no matter what he did nothing seemed to change. _No dice! You’re stuck, chump! Blame yer’ ma and blame yer’ pa for these gotdam faulty genetics! But blame yerself the most for never workin' on out enough and for being too much of a lazy shit to take care of yerself!_

‘I just think the work you do is incredible,’ Janice says. Richie can’t help but think of the Muppet with the same name whenever she speaks. The restaurant lurks in Richie’s peripheral vision, people, things, moving around. Richie tries to focus on the woman in front of him. To check every single person in here and determine if they were a threat or not was exhausting. Just ignore it. Focus on her. ‘Comedy reaches so many people, I’d love to be a part of that.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Are you okay? You look pale.’

‘Cause’ I am pale.’ Richie says and Janice laughs. Richie can see her breasts when she leans her body towards him.

‘I think Jason is trying to set us up.’ Janice proposes after she comes down from her giggle-fit. Richie looks up from her chest and meets her eye. Maybe it’s the wine talking. Anybody looks good after three glasses of wine, Richie figures.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s always trying to pimp me out for free labour.’ Richie says, his mouth drying and he realizes he hadn’t had sex for, fuck, almost six months now? He takes another sip of his wine.

‘I have a room upstairs.’ She says. Richie swallows.

Smash cut to her hotel room. Janice pushes Richie down onto the king size mattress and clambers on top of him, like some sexy nude lioness, and, y’know, Richie does feels a bit out of practice- a three-month dry spell, then he hadn’t done anything since he got back from Derry, then he moved in with Eddie. He didn’t want to bring someone home with Eddie there. The poor guy would probably shit his pants and yell his head off at Richie the next morning, about decency, courtesy, and how Richie kept him up all night and he only got four hours of sleep, which is half the amount he needs to function, you asshole!

Janice doesn’t care. She doesn’t care that he hasn’t had sex in forever and that he’s a fat piece of shit. She only cares that he uses a condom and quits using the British Guy voice. Roight-o, guvnah! Woteva you say!

She swings her legs over each side of Richie, straddling him. Richie can feel his breath catch in his throat. Not in the good way. He opens his eyes, and instead of Janice on top of him, he sees Eddie there, above him, the monster screeching in the background. He’s in the cave. Richie doesn’t even have time to curse his brain out for confusing sex with a woman for one of the worst moments of his life before the deadlights show him Eddie's chest being pierced by a demon claw. Blood leaks out of Eddie’s mouth before the claw retracts, taking Eddie with him and then tossing him to the side like a used toy.

‘Oh, fuck.’ Richie says. Janice gives a moan of agreement from another world.

Richie rushes to Eddie’s side, willing his dizzy head and legs made of stone to get to him and get there- make sure he’s okay. He has his hand on the side of Eddie’s face because earlier he had got upset when Richie touched his scar. He’s not reacting now, but he’s just sleeping, okay? He’s resting and we can get him out of here and he’ll be okay.

‘He’s okay guys,’ He can hear himself saying because nobody else is moving and nobody else is helping him.

‘Honey… Honey, he’s dead.’ Beverly tells him, but he can’t believe that. No, Eddie is still warm in his arms. We can save him, you guys, please.

Then the scene shifts and it’s three years later. The lights don’t tell him that, but Richie somehow knows. He’s alone in a hotel room, Las Vegas. The most alone he’s ever been (which is saying something). It looks like he’s just finished a show and it’s a pretty normal scene of Richie decompressing, but there’s a handful of pills in his hand, and Richie knows that they came out of Eddie’s luggage, and maybe by now they’ve expired but it might just be enough to get the job done. There’s a bottle of scotch in his other hand and Richie can’t blame himself when he swallows the pills. Even in fucking death, he's a cliche- lonely old man in a shitty hotel room, yeah, yeah, he'd seen it before.

‘I beat him!’ Eddie cries. Richie doesn’t even have the time to congratulate him before he shoves Eddie off of him, to the side, and then rolls himself out of the way before the claw comes smashing down on the spot where they had just been.

‘Are you into this? Should we change positions?’ Janice asks tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking down at Richie who had stopped moving. He had his eyes shut tight and his hands over his face.

'Stupid clown!’ Richie can hear himself scream, really scream so hard he can feel it in his lungs. The Losers are behind him, all of them. Beverly, Ben, Bill, Mike, Eddie, Stan. That’s the way it really happened, Richie has to remind himself. They have that grotesque still-beating heart in their hands. The clown looks like it’s melting into the rocks, and it’s all almost over. Richie looks to his right and Eddie is there. He’s alive.

‘Hey, Richie?’ She asks again, touching a hand to his face. Richie lets out a sound that yeah, he’s there.

‘Do you… do you need to stop?’ And Richie shakes his head no, he’s okay, he can do this because he’s not a fucking pussy and sex shouldn’t be this hard, but Janice slides off him and sits down next to him on the bed. He can breathe again, ragged and stuttering. 

_I’m in a hotel room in Midtown. Not Derry._

_Not Derry. Not Derry. Not Derry._

When Richie finally opens his eyes and a blurry Janice, this woman he barely knows is looking at him with wide eyes.

‘Sorry.’ He mumbles, sitting up slightly and grabbing his glasses off the nightstand. He puts them back on and the world comes into focus. A hotel room in Midtown. Not Derry.

‘It’s alright.’ She says, but he can tell she’s disappointed.

‘I’ve just been through some stuff.’ He offers as a feeble explanation, but how much explaining do you owe to someone you only met a few hours before? It’s not like she’d get the whole inter-dimensional clown thing. So she offers a more down to earth explanation:

‘Did someone rape you?’

‘What- no. No. God, no.’

‘That was a joke.’ She says, laughing slightly. Richie laughs a little bit too.

‘That’s fuckin' dark, dude.’ He says, and they both laugh harder. Not because the joke is funny, but because he doesn’t know what else to do at this point.

Eddie stares at his phone. It’s seven now and Richie’s not here and Eddie’s not stupid so he knows what’s happening. He googles a picture of the director and yeah, she’s gorgeous. Blonde with come hither eyes that put Eddie’s brown ones to shame. No matter how hard he tries his brain won’t stop sending him images of her and Richie, skin on skin, in every position imaginable in some fancy hotel room and Richie couldn’t even be bothered to text him that he couldn’t make it. Eddie sinks down and leans against the bathtub, the pill cabinet starting down at him. Eddie’s an idiot.

But who even talks to their friend that way? Who says ‘it’s a date’ to a friend? Yeah, this is Richie’s fault. Richie’s fault for being so flirty all the fucking time.

_He’s no good for you. He’s corrupting you._

When they were kids Richie would look at him with those big bug eyes and make him feel things he didn’t know he could feel, things he couldn't even begin to label at that age, the same way Richie would look at Eddie over cups of coffee and cereal bowls. Now Eddie knew what it was. That was Richie’s fault. When Richie would hog the hammock past his time limit he made Eddie climb in there with him, or when Richie needed Eddie to come and wake him up every morning. Richie’s fault. It was Richie’s stupid fault that they moved in together because Eddie couldn’t bear to be apart from him and it was Richie’s fault that Eddie was in love with someone who was fucking someone else- a woman, which might have stung the worst of all. All Richie’s fault.

_There-there. What did I tell you? You can change Eddie; you can fix this._

And Eddie can’t believe he says this, even though he knows his mother’s idea of change would be a conversion camp and calling Myra up, but he does: ‘I miss you, mommy.’

_I’m always here, Eddie Bear._

Eddie swears he can feel her hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t have to wonder how he got so messed up. He laughs at himself for a second. Forty years old and almost crying on the bathroom floor.

He should be married right now. Not that marriage with Myra, but one that makes him happy. Maybe he’d have kids right now and he wouldn’t be in New York, in the filth covered city. Maybe he’d be in Seattle. Seattle seemed kinda cool. The Space Needle could just replace the Empire State.

All the maybes he'd never get to see because they'd been stolen from him.

His phone vibrates, resting on the edge of the bathroom sink. Eddie dashes to pick it up hoping it’s Richie. It is. Two words. Even though Richie talks so goddam much in person, his are texts are always the opposite because Richie types like he’s never seen a cell-phone in his life.

**Richie T.**

Home so on!

Eddie unlocks his phone and his thumbs hover over the screen. It's not Richie's fault Eddie is a mess. Richie is just Richie and Eddie is just Eddie. 

**Eddie Kaspbrak**

Okay. See you when you get here.

A moment passes then the next tag pops up.

_Read, 7:13 P.M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! 
> 
> thank u for reading ! lov u ! 
> 
> alot of ppl write richie texting like a gen z but like hes a fuckin boomer to me in all the worst ways if u dont agree sorry meet me in a shoppers drug mart parking lot and lets rumble mother fucker 
> 
> anyway the tinest bit slower updates going forward because im going into my exam times but ok good luck to any of you also in exams alright by e now


	4. How to Overthink Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of past abuse, anxiety

Richie walks through the front door at eight o'clock, which all things considered, wasn’t even that late. Janice offered Richie a shot to calm down which he gladly accepted. Then they played grab-ass for a hot minute but then Richie couldn’t exactly get things ‘working’, per se, and tried to see himself out in the most dignified way possible. Janice had even kissed him goodbye, so maybe she wasn’t all that mad at him for ruining their hookup. Richie wonders if Eddie has any Viagra lurking in the pill cabinet and laughs to himself because he’s such a fucking mess.

By the time Richie is on the subway he only feels a bit of a buzz. He’s tired, though. If some teenagers weren’t beatboxing and subsequently flinging spit everywhere, he’d have fallen asleep. It’s not that good type of tired- it’s not the one where you’re a kid and pass out in the backseat on the way home but you wake up in your own bed. It’s an empty tired that makes the space between his ears hurt. Eddie probably has something for that as well.

Sometimes it feels like the best part of his day is coming home to Eddie. Richie turns the key in the lock and steps inside. None of the lights are out and Richie flicks on one of the living room lights but presses the wrong switch. Geez, been here a month or two and you think you woulda learnt which switch makes which light work. Richie hits the switch just beneath and the foyer light clicks on and it hits Richie that it’s too quiet.

‘Eddie, I’m back.’ Richie calls through the apartment. There’s no response.

He’s fucking dead.

Holy shit, he’s fucking dead.

No, he’s fucking not, dumbass, chill.

He’s dead and you gotta check his room. The clowns back.

Richie takes his jacket off and throws it on the couch, trying to walk as calmly as possible towards Eddie’s door even though he wants to run. Eddie’s door is open a crack and Richie pushes it open with the palm of his hand.

‘Dude, what the fuck?’ Eddie curses, caught mid-crunch. He’s on his bedroom floor, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and some shorts that aren’t a far cry off from the ones he wore as a kid. ‘Knocking is a thing.’

Shorts be damned, Richie thinks. Eddie is alive and he’s okay. Richie moves into the room and squats to takes Eddie into an awkwardly shaped hug which Eddie doesn’t return, but at least he’s okay.

'Are you drunk?’ Eddie moves Richie off of him and pushes himself off the ground. ‘You smell drunk.’

‘I had, like, three glasses of wine. And one shot. Two hours ago.’ Richie says, getting comfortable on the floor. Richie remembers Janice’s mouth on his neck and hauls his shirt collar up as he watches Eddie move around the room. That bugging part of his brain asks why it’d be so bad for Eddie to see a hickey on him and Richie tells that part to shut up because it already knows the answer.

‘Yeah. When you shoulda been home.’ Eddie rolls his workout mat up, not looking at Richie.

‘We can have dinner tomorrow if you want.’ Richie offers, leaning his back against Eddie’s bed.

Eddie ties the ribbon on the mat and places it back into its normal position at the foot of his bed. ‘Can’t.’ 

‘Why not?’ Richie asks.

How dare Richie sound that sad, Eddie thinks.

‘Divorce stuff.’ Eddie says.

‘Are you mad at me?’

Eddie puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the floor. He can feel himself biting at his cheek, tapping his foot. He wants to say something but there’s this stupid fucking block. Mom wouldn’t have even let him put his hands on his hips, crying or shouting whenever he gave any hint of attitude. This is Richie. Just say something. Come on.

‘Dude, we can just hang out some other night.’ Richie watches Eddie, the way his jaw is tensing. If Eddie were to look at him he’d see the kicked puppy eyes Richie is putting out and Eddie had just gotten himself under control ten minutes ago and he really doesn’t want to lose it now. One sob moment a night, please. Doctors orders.

‘Please don’t be mad at me.’ Richie says in a tone Eddie had never heard before from Richie. Complete defeat.

Eddie lets out a sigh. He thinks that maybe he’ll turn around and forgive him and then they can forget this whole mess, but Eddie remembers Myra saying the exact same thing with Eddie standing in this exact same room. The ghost outline of their relationship places Eddie right where he’s standing and Myra in the bed they shared, cautious and cloying. She knows that Eddie could snap at any second and attack her, but she knows he won’t. He never has and he wouldn’t dare. He forgives her, every time. 

He won’t let himself end up like that ever again. Twice is more than enough.

‘Apologize then.’ Eddie says.

'Okay.’ Richie responds and Eddie is surprised to hear him agree. Not because it was out of Richie’s character, but that wouldn’t have worked with Myra. She’d have lost it on him. Richie continues. ‘I’m sorry.’

The air goes blank for a second as Richie thinks. Maybe when he was a thirteen-year-old he would have said he was sorry he fucked Eddie’s mom, but he’s a grown-up now. Grown-ups own up to their mistakes.

‘I’m sorry I stood you up. I should have come home sooner, or I should have let you know I wouldn’t be able to make it.’ Richie can see Eddie’s posture relax. ‘I just got caught up in everything. It won’t happen again.’

‘Okay.’ Eddie says. 

‘You’re not mad?’ Richie asks. Eddie doesn’t say anything because he’s not sure.

Richie keeps talking like he always does. ‘I mean, I was thinking of you the entire time.’

Eddie meets Richie’s eye, hopeful. ‘Yeah?’

'Yeah. It was boring as shit, just blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.’ He says, and Eddie believes him. ‘I’d rather listen to you rant about the swine flu than some snooty director talk about how much she ‘loves’ comedy.’

Eddie chuckles a little bit and Richie takes that as full forgiveness, which it was.

‘It’s still early, do you wanna watch something?’ Richie asks. ‘I can make popcorn.’

Eddie nods, finally pulling his gaze from the mirror and looking at Richie. He has the urge to hug the guy who looks stressed the fuck out from that whole conversation. Eddie knows that’s what he would have done if they were thirty or so years younger. Boys hug. Men don’t. So Eddie doesn’t reach out to Richie as much as it pains him to see the man who stands at six-two in a small puddle on the ground. 

‘Let me get into my pyjamas.’ Eddie says instead.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Richie answers, unmoving.

‘You need to leave the room first.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry.'

After Eddie changes, they end up on the couch- the smaller one (it’s softer, Richie says). They sit next to each other although they both think they’d rather have the other in their arms and they wonder to themselves why they can’t just say that.

Richie thinks if he were to tell Eddie he’d die, probably. He’s made it this far in the closet. Maybe he’ll be eighty years old and still stuck. Some people never get to come out at all, but Richie’s not entirely sure what he would come out as, if at all. He knows he’s not straight (his porn searches are definitely telling), but boobs are still hot sometimes, he guesses. Janice’s boobs were. So was everything else, up until she got on him like that. He’d rather not be intimate with someone again if he was just going to like _that._ He’d rather be a eunuch, or have his dick bitten off by a pack of wild dogs, or have his dick ripped off his body by tying it to a rocket ship during takeoff and then holding onto the ground as hard as he can or have his dick stuck in a blender-

Eddie thinks that he’s not that brave. Richie tells him he is, and when Richie says it he believes it, but think of all the things that could go wrong. Hey, Richie, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. Eddie spreads his hand out on the couch, connecting the tip of his pinky to Richie’s. Richie keeps staring straight ahead at the TV. Besides, Richie doesn’t even like men that way. It’s just Eddie and his filthy mind.

Richie stares straight ahead at the TV because he knows if he looks at Eddie he’ll give it all away. He’s not as brave as Eddie, not as strong as Mike, not as independent as Stanley. He’s the comedic relief, not the charming love interest with a handsome, brown-eyed damsel on his arm. Not that Richie sees Eddie as a damsel, not at all. Eddie doesn’t need Richie to protect him but Richie knows from the deadlights that he wouldn’t be able to go on without Eddie. He can’t risk losing him.

Then there’s the fear of AIDs. Eddie’s mom had drilled that illness into his mind, almost as hard as the asthma. He knows, Eddie knows, that its 2016 and that Richie probably doesn’t have anything (that wasn’t something you asked your friends: Hey, what STDs do you have, bud?) and Eddie knows for sure that he doesn’t have anything like that because he checks every month, sexually active or not- even though it’s more often ‘not’. He knows that even if either of them did have anything like that they’d be fine, there’s modern medicine and they’ll probably be okay, and he knows- okay? He knows, he tells himself but it doesn’t matter if he knows or not. Even if everything comes back clean then there’s the idea of… sex. Eddie has seen the videos but… he’s only ever had sex with Myra. 

It’s not like Richie even deserves Eddie, Richie thinks. It’s a miracle Eddie forgave him and Richie doesn’t know why Eddie did it. Besides, Richie is like a three out of ten on a good day and Eddie is a perfect ten. Even if Eddie was into dudes, Richie was the worst of all dudes. The least deserving of him. Eddie could have any guy he wanted- why would he ever want Richie? Could he ever even want Richie?

He wraps his pinky around Eddie’s. Give me a sign and let me know. Let me know, or I’ll die waiting for you.

What if Eddie gets married again? Richie thinks that his heart would shatter. The ground would open up and swallow him because he might as well be in hell. He’s seen his life without Eddie. It’s miserable. Richie knows that that’s a lot of pressure, pinning all your happiness onto one person. He couldn’t do that to Eddie. Not because Eddie is fragile, but because nobody deserves that.

Maybe they could just stay this way. Stay safe, stay silent, and keep dancing around each other the way they had been since they were kids. Leave it all in the unsaid and take what crumbs they can get, pretending they can’t see it.

Eddie looks at Richie again, his glasses reflecting the movie playing. Richie’s eye dares to reach Eddie’s face and they both look away, yanking themselves away from the flame. Eddie clears his throat and takes his hand away from Richie’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again thank u for reading 
> 
> i fuckkin hate this chapter and the next one but then the one after that i really really like but i hope u guys liked this one comments and notes appreciated we all in this together


	5. How to Survive a Day as Richie Tozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: depressed/suicidal thoughts, heavy panic attacks

Richie wakes up to his phone buzzing on his nightstand. Rise and grind, fuck-head. Grab your stupid fucking glasses and put them on your stupid fucking face. Check your phone and see if anyone misses you- they don’t, just so you know - who would? 

**BIG BILL**

Image attachment.

**BIG BILL (2)**

GIF sent with Pikturly.

**Janice Doherty**

Hope you’re feeling better – xoxo

Richie's thumbs race to block her number. If he could just not remember that moment of complete and total vulnerability, that would be great, thanks. His phone buzzes again before he can press the block button.

**Janice Doherty (2)**

If you ever need someone to talk with, and I’m serious, let me kno...

_Oh god,_ Richie thinks. _Now she wants to be there for me? What the fuck?_

He presses his finger down and her number joins the mile-long list of blocked numbers Richie has. He can barely remember any of them at this point. Crazy exes, fans who had found his number, girls who had tried to be there for him emotionally. Join the club, Janice.

New York is never really quiet. Let’s start the day with a migraine, why don't we? The thrashing of the street echoes up into their apartment- there are two cats screeching in an alley. Richie’s not sure if they’re fucking or fighting. Or if that even makes a difference- it never really had for him. Their next-door neighbour seems to be banging pots and pans in their kitchen (or maybe that’s the garbage trucks on the street, but Eddie had made sure Richie knew garbage day was on Wednesday, and today was a Monday), hammering out a breakfast that would leave the hallways smelling like eggs for days to come. Pure delight. 

The sounds would change at night. Police sirens would blare up and down the street, people would shout in the streets and you wouldn’t be able to tell if they’re fucking or fighting. It doesn’t make a difference. The sounds usually kept Richie up at night. Amongst other things, his brain reminds him with a teasing wink, but Richie reminds himself that those are nightmares and he’d really rather not have them, so if you could maybe stop showing me flashbacks to my best friends being dead and/or dying, that’d be awesome!

Or if you could stop showing that image of Bower’s laying on the library floor. He looks normal, you think, except that his head is split in two and he’s holding an axe. Mike is on the floor, looking up at Richie with wild eyes. Hell, he didn’t think he could do that either, Mikey.

Richie finds himself with his head in the toilet. There wasn’t much food in his stomach- the wine that was already acidic going down stung, even more so on it's way back up, accompanied by the crème Brulee Richie and that woman shared. _Bon appetit._

'Are you hung-over?’ Eddie asks on his way back in from his jog, stopping to look at Richie from the safety of the hallway. Richie knows that Eddie is probably thinking he has influenza or somethin’ or other. Richie grunts something that resembles a yes. A hangover would be easier to explain (and not entirely out of the ordinary for Richie anyway).

Because a hangover can’t spread germs, Eddie hops steps over Richie’s kneeling body and towards his medicine cabinet.

‘No, man, just- go get ready for work,’ Richie pushes out, hurking again mid-sentence.

Eddie comes back to his side with a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water. Richie knows that Eddie hesitates before touching his back- he would too. He hadn’t showered since yesterday and Richie knows what he had done in these clothes and the regret is definitely kicking in.

‘Dude, I’m fine.’ He tries again. Eddie pats his back, another wave of nausea hits. Richie’s body wracks as he hacks up whatever was left from yesterday. This might count as a workout, he could already feel it in his core.

Eddie holds out the water and a painkiller, which Richie takes. If he said he wasn’t actually hungover, because he’d barely had enough to get drunk in the first place, Eddie would think something worse was going on and flip out on him. Eddie probably had to be at work soon and Richie didn’t want to be the reason Eddie spent the day in New York General.

He can’t let Eddie know he spends almost every waking hour terrified. That would terrify Eddie. Besides, Richie was a grown fucking man. He wasn’t a little pussy. He could deal with this- whatever _this_ was, alone.

‘Are you done?’ Eddie asks. There’s a sardonic edge in his voice, but it’s smoothed over (mostly) with care.

_I love you so much it hurts._

‘Done your mom,’ Richie says before taking a glug of water and swallowing the painkiller.

Eddie starts lecturing Richie about the side effects of the medicine (nausea, he says, and Richie has to try not to laugh) and that he needs to eat something as soon as he can, and that he should probably rehydrate as soon as he can. Richie asks Eddie if he knows he’s late for work and Eddie says that he’s not, if he just catches the next train he’ll be fine, but Eddie is already sticking a foot out the door because he doesn’t want to admit Richie is right.

Then he’s alone. Not to be a whiney emo kid straight from 2008, but Richie usually was. Nobody, not even Eddie, could stick around for long. His phone buzzes again as he makes his way into the kitchen. He wasn’t super hungry, but maybe he should think about eating something just so he can get something in his stomach and calm things down.

**Jason (Da Man)**

If you could pop by the office today, that’d be great.

GIF Sent with Giffer2016.

Richie swipes the message open. The Gif is a little looping square of Gary Cole in Office Space, standing over a cubicle with a mug of coffee. Richie snorts.

**Richie T.**

Got u

**Jason (Da Man)**

What time will you be here?

**Richie T.**

I will b the re @ 10 🙂🙂🙂

Jason was already bi-coastal, hopping back and forth between LA and NYC, so moving business out here wasn’t really a struggle. There are clubs everywhere, he had said. It was all so easy Richie felt like he was getting away with something.

_Which you technically did. You killed someone and got away with it._

_It was self-defence._

_With an axe to the head. Right._

**BIG BILL (3)**

Image attachment.

**BIG BILL (4)**

The Grand Canyon says “Hi!”.

**BIG BILL (5)**

Image attachment.

**BIG BILL (6)**

So does Mike!

Richie reads Mike’s name and puts his phone down.

He got around without a cellphone just fine up until 2001. He probably wouldn’t need it for the day, anyway. He turns the phone off and places it on the kitchen counter. And, yeah, he should probably text Bill back- that’s what a good person would do, but Richie hadn’t even called Mike since he left Derry and if he texts Bill back without calling Mike that would just look weird and then they’d get mad at him and- holy, fuck, dude. Relax. Please. You’re gonna stress yourself into an early heart attack. Not that’d it be early at this point. You’re fucking old as shit.

Then that very quiet, but very present part of his head whispers _not if something else gets you first_ and Richie has to spend the next five minutes checking every corner of the apartment to make sure nothing is lurking. Mike had told stories of people going insane after looking into the deadlights and Richie feels pretty insane as he looks under his bed for monsters, fully expecting them to be there and ridiculously relieved when it’s just his stash of porn magazines from college and a few loose socks.

It makes him want to tear his hair out.

_Whatever was left anyway, ya’ bald schmuck!_ Some half-realized impression shouts.

Could everything please shut the fuck up for just a few seconds? Just need a second to breathe, then I’ll be okay. Just one second. 

_In, One… two… three… four._

_Out, One… two... three… four._

Okay. Let’s shower, get into some fresh clothes, get some grub, then go see Jason. You can do that, it’s not that hard.

_That’s a pretty long list, I don’t know-_

_Shut the fuck up and get moving because you have to keep moving or Eddie is going to find out you’re broken and leave you._

When Richie wipes the steam off the bathroom mirror and looks at himself he’s not surprised he looks like shit. The bruises littering his collarbones really weren’t helping the look. Looked like he had gotten in a tangle with a giant squid, or if those spa specialists with the hot cups had done his front rather than the back. _Nice, Tozier. You're a man-whore._

Echinacea Gel helps with Bruises, right? Richie opens the shared medicine cabinet (Eddie had a much more elaborate one in his bedroom that held all the heavy stuff) and scans. Holy shit, the guy kept things in order. Every label faced forward, straight as arrows. Richie found the gel easily and squirted some directly onto his chest. Hopefully, the leech marks would clear up quick. _They make you look shitter than you already are._

Jason holds up his finger and points to his Bluetooth as Richie plops down in one of the chairs opposite Jason’s desk. He remembers when Jason’s office was located in Jason’s tiny living room, the only pieces of furniture a beat-up couch Richie had helped Jason drag in off the curb and a cardboard box that served as his desk. Now he has a clear view of central park and a desk that probably costs five grand.

‘No, that’s not gonna work.’ Jason says, the same blunt tone that Eddie favours, with the same furrowed brow Eddie always uses, ‘No. I’ll call you back. Great. Bye.’ Jason presses a button on his earpiece. Call ended. ‘How’s it hanging, buddy?’

Maybe the first bit of honesty uttered from Richie’s mouth all day: ‘I’ve been better.’

‘How’d it go with Janice?’

‘Did she really wanna direct my movie or were you just tryna’ get me some?’

Jason shrugs with a toothy grin and Richie knows the answer.

‘I am perfectly fuckin’ capable of getting my own dates, dude.’ Even though he knows he’s really not. Nobody would want him- a balding comedian with a knack for freaking out during sex. _The ladies are just creaming themselves!_

‘It’d be good press for the special. You have to make a return somehow. Did you see her reel? You should call her.’

‘Nah.’

‘Nah?’ Jason mocks.

‘No. It got awkward.’

‘Richie Tozier? _Awkward_?’ Jason mocks again. 

‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’ Richie says, but Jason is giving him that look. 

Jason had found him when Richie when he was twenty-four and had begged Richie to let him work for him after one of Richie’s sets at a run-down stand-up bar. Jason hadn’t even graduated business school at that point and Richie figures it’d be cheap labour, so what did he have to lose? Turns out, nothing. Jason made him a winner- got him where Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier where he was today, with six domestic tours under his belt and three comedy specials, a fourth on the horizon.

‘Are you sure you?’ Jason presses.

_es-sir-fucking-ree! I gotta lot inside of me and I don’t know how much longer I can keep this all in without losing my fucking mind, but I can’t let anybody know or they’re just gonna get worried and stressed and then I’ll get even more fucking worried for them and we’re all just gonna be in a huge orgy of ‘Let's Worry About Richie Tozier!’ and I don’t deserve anyone to worry about me because I’m a piece of shit with more sins at my beck than I have thoughts to fucking put them in fuck you Shakespeare and if anyone even comes close to knowing the real me, knowing who I am, they’d just leave anyway, so, no, I’m not fucking sure but I can’t fucking talk to you and I don’t even deserve to talk to anyone and even if I did I can’t even talk about anything remotely serious or truthful without completely falling apart or making a huge fool of myself._

‘I can set you up with a good therapist-‘ He continues, and Richie really isn’t sure how many times people will keep saying that to him until they get the point.

‘No. No way’ Richie says.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, dude. I don’t need a fuckin’ shrink. Why’s everyone tryna get me in therapy?’

‘Maybe because they can tell something’s wrong?’ Jason supplies.

‘Why’d you need me here today, man?’

‘Look, the thing this season is for every comedian to off himself. Y’know, with Robin. It's fucking contagious and I don’t want to see you gone just yet.'

‘I’m not gonna fucking kill myself.’ Richie says. He knows he does the deed in some alternate dimension, which means he’s probably capable of doing it in this one, but he tells himself don’t think about that too hard or you’re not gonna like where it goes.

‘You promise not to kill yourself?’ Jason asks as if that’s a normal thing to say.

‘Yeah, I fuckin’ promise. Quit being weird.’ Richie says but Jason is still looking at him with that stupid look of concern. ‘Can we talk about something else, please, dude?’

Finally, Jason stops probing and launches into something about when they have to shoot the new special, something about how he’d have to go on tour, and yeah, yeah, whatever. You don’t deserve any of this. You're a fucking hack. You're a lucky fucking loser. You rolled your way out of bed and onto a stage by the good grace of God and the only reason you get to stay there, taking the part of someone way more talented then you'll ever be, is because you're a spectacular liar. You lie to everyone. You lied to your parents when they were still around to listen. You lie to Eddie, every single day. You lie to yourself. 

Fuck you, you piece of shit. Maybe you should just do it already. Cut your losses. Bite the bullet. 

_Shutthefuckupshutthefuckuppleasepleasepleaseshutthefuckup!_

Jason kicks him out a few hours later and Richie walks out into the reception area, just as swank as Jason’s office with a sexy secretary to boot, and oh fuck, is that who he thinks it is?

‘Hey, Richie!’ Janice greets. She looks different in the light of day, but yeah, that's her. 

‘Howdy, pardner!’ Just be a cowboy, dude. She’ll think you’re fucking crazy (because you are) and then she won’t want to talk to you ever again.

‘Did you get my texts?’ She asks. Richie can feel the secretary looking at them, eager for any bit of gossip.

‘What’sa text, boy-howdy?’

‘I’m serious, if you ever need someone to talk about things with, we can go grab a coffee or something. No sex neces-‘ She tries to say, but Richie starts laughing to cut her off.

‘Ha-ha! Well, that’s not how we do things here out in the wild-wild-wild west but if you talk to my cow-poke Jason he’d be sure to wrangle something up, but I got to mosey on out of here, got bandits to stop and Indians- fuck, first nations- nope, shit, uh, dudes to fight out in the desert, so you be on yer’ way now, ya hear?’

‘You’ve been inside me, asshole. I’m trying to help.’

Yeah, yeah, he’s heard that before. He doesn’t need to stick around to hear it again- his own head already beats him up enough, thanks. Richie is already in the elevator heading back down to street level, far away from Jason and Janice and their joint plan to make him breakdown completely… the clock on the elevator wall reads two-thirty… at two-thirty on a Monday afternoon. Eddie comes back at six. Just a few more hours.

Richie skips the train and walks back to the apartment. That would take an hour if he walked real slowly, as opposed to a thirty-minute subway. Subway. Maybe he should get some Subway, he didn’t eat breakfast. No, he doesn’t really need it. Does Eddie need anything from the grocery store? Trader Joes was on the way. Has that guy been following him for a few blocks now? Richie turns his head over his shoulder.

Yeah, there’s someone behind him. How long had they been there? Fuck. Richie starts walking faster. He turns a corner. If they followed him this way then, yeah, they were definitely following him.

The person turns the same way and Richie starts an internal monologue of _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ on a loop. He can hear his heart in his ears and he thinks maybe he should start running. Maybe it’s Pennywise, taking human form and tormenting him, but Pennywise is dead and the Losers had made sure of that, so maybe it’s an undercover policeman, here to arrest Richie for the mur- fuck, the murd- no, he can’t even fucking think that word or he’ll have to vomit and if he vomits he’ll get caught and he’ll have to go to jail for the rest of his life and look at him- he’s a mess, do you really think he’d make it through jail of all places?

Then the person crosses the street and turns a different way. Richie stops walking, watching them go. Somebody bumps into his left side than brushes past with ease. Then another person brushes by on his right. Only once the stranger becomes a tiny dot on the horizon does Richie let himself unclench his jaw. He finds a park bench and sits down, a tired old man and some pigeons.

_Just get used to this, bud. This is your new normal._

When Richie’s legs stop feeling like Strawberry Jello he stands up. His head hurts and he sweating even though he’s cold. At least he doesn’t have to vomit because his throat is still sore from this morning’s hurl.

_I should be over this by now._ _I really should be over this by now._

_Nobody even died, dude. Why are you acting like a fuckin’ coward?_

_Because I am a fuckin’ coward, fuck you._ _Just walk. Go home. Wait for Eddie._

Richie has to nod at his own thoughts to confirm them as he starts walking again, slowly, though. If he goes too fast he might pass out in the gutter.

The clock in the apartment lobby reads four ten. He thinks that maybe he should try to write a bit (yeah, whose he fuckin’ kidding), but then he falls asleep as soon as he sits down on his bed. Sometimes Richie dreams. He can’t really remember all of them though, just the way they made him feel. Sometimes he’ll wake up feeling warm, which is good. Other times he’ll wake up with a start, like those dreams where you slip on a patch of ice than before your head can slam down on the concrete you wake up. You never get to see you skull split in two. Blood on the Library floor.

More often it’s waking up like that, or just waking up and knowing something is wrong. Something is wrong and you can’t tell what it is.

That’s how Richie wakes up, and hey, did he always shake this much? The apartment has the heat on, he shouldn’t be shivering. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s sweated through his t-shirt, he can feel it clinging to his armpits- Eddie would kill him for sleeping in his street clothes. Change. Change your shirt. Get up. Go.

Richie pushes himself onto the edge of his bed but his head is spinning again- oh fuck.

He’s having a heart attack.

He must be having a heart attack.

He puts his hand to his heart, and it's beating, yeah, but it feels like it’s skipping every other beat and it’s making it hard to breathe. _This is what a heart attack feels like_ , Richie decides. Richie tries to push himself up but his legs decide to crumble beneath him, plopping him back down on his mattress.

The thought hits him: he’s gonna die alone.

_No, get your phone, call somebody. C’mon, get up. Your phone is the kitchen, move your ass._ Richie tries again to stand but has the same luck as the first time, this time sliding down onto the floor. Richie can hear the apartment door creak open and he knows it’s the undercover cop here to get him, so he’s not gonna die alone, at least. _That’s all, folks! Say goodbye to Richie Tozier, who died to a heart attack at forty, just barely escaping being tried for murder!_ A wave of nausea hits Richie and he has to push it down because he can only have so many things going on at once.

‘Hey, Richie?’ Eddie calls through the apartment. ‘Did you get my texts?’

Richie shakes his head no and he can hear himself panting. It’s Eddie, so it’s okay. Get him in here.

‘Eddie!’ Richie calls back, oh, now Eddie was by his side and he was saying something Richie can’t listen to because Eddie is talking so fast and asking so many questions.

‘M’ having a heart attack.’ Richie manages to say and Eddie says that no he’s not, he’s okay, can you walk? No? Okay, okay. Then Eddie’s on his phone and Richie is telling him that he’s fine, he doesn’t need an ambulance, he’s gonna be okay, he doesn’t want to bother anyone- please put the phone down, Eddie!

Eddie tells him to try to relax and Richie says he’s trying but please, we don’t have to go to a hospital you hate it there you don’t have to go we can stay here I’m okay, okay? I’m okay!

Eddie doesn’t believe him and now he’s talking to someone on the phone and Richie is telling him to stop, hang up, I’m fine, really but Eddie doesn’t listen to him one bit. Richie starts to repeat himself, frantically, but then he’s feeling dizzier and dizzier and Eddie is still talking on the phone and please, Eddie, I’m okay, really, I’m fine, but then another cocktail of dizziness with a shot of nausea hits before everything goes dark.

_Please don't be worried, Eds._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAhhHHAHhhahahaha no youre so sexy richie dont have a heart attack and fucking die


	6. How to Manage a Day as Eddie Kaspbrak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: memories of abuse, hospital visit

The alarm goes off at six in the morning. The Good Life Project starts playing- today's topic: _Happiness_. 

Shower. Clean. Clean everything as much as possible. Brush your teeth. 

_... deep into the Colorado Rockies, I'm sitting in the would-be home, of Brad, explorer of life..._

Check your phone. Some emails. Some texts. Nothing that can’t wait an hour. Phone down. Get dressed. Workout gear. First the black, sweat-wicking technology-infused long-sleeved t-shirt. Shorts, if the weather is nice, but it’s the first few days of October in New York so long johns go underneath.

... _Happy and good mean the same thing- that's it, that's the goal..._

Check on Richie on the way out. His door is closed and Eddie can’t make out any movement happening on the inside. He’s probably sleeping, which is good. He's been looking a little tired lately and you've started to hear Radiohead playing at three a.m. He needs the rest, whenever he can get it. 

_...There's the tragedy in the human condition... moments of negative stimuli in the context of your own life..._

Down the stairs, out the door. Stretch for a few minutes on the steps. Jog. Really jog. Maybe start running when the breeze catches you the right way. Run so hard your lungs feel like they’re on fire. Run all the way to the East Village, all the way down Avenue A. Don’t stop until you reach the edge of the city. Breathe, for a second. Watch the boats go by.

_... the ability to deal with them however you want, and surround them with whatever you want, focus on the things you can impact..._

When you get back, hear your roommate vomiting into the toilet. He says he’s fine, just hung-over, so you bring him a painkiller and a cup of water like you usually do. He's hungover pretty often. Feel proud of yourself for a moment because you didn’t get grossed out at the germs his vomit could have. Feel grossed out at the germs his vomit could have and go back to your room.

You shower in your en-suite bathroom because Richie is still hurling up his guts and you don’t have the time to wait for him to finish. Clean. Clean everything as much as possible, again. Clean until you feel like you won't become a walking infection.

_... happy people are healthier; they live healthier lives, they have better friends, they do well at work..._

Get dressed again. A button-up, a tie, suit jacket, slacks and dress shoes. You hate the way they feel but you need to keep your job because New York rent is expensive and your lawyer charges eight hundred an hour and you ask yourself why you’re even here in the first place.

... _So, what is happiness? ..._

You went to school here to get out of Derry. When you graduated your wife found a nice little place on Canal Street and a job opened up for you. Then when she tells you she wants to try to have kids you have to move from the nice little place on Canal Street and find a ‘New York Big’ apartment. Somewhere where the kids can have separate rooms, painted with butterflies and zebras. Those rooms slowly morphed into a home office and a craft studio, the butterflies and zebras painted over with egg-shell white after the doctors give you the news. There’s still glitter in the cracks of the floorboards from when Myra used to make crafts here and you think that at some point you loved her (or at least you hope you did, because who marries someone they don’t love?). You think you need to stop thinking about the past.

Your best friend hands you a thermos of coffee on the way out the door. He makes you a cup every morning but he knows that if you don’t catch a train like, right now, you’ll be late as fuck. When you sip the coffee on the train, made with oat-milk and Splenda, just the way you don’t necessarily like it but the way you think you need it, you smile because he remembered.

... _It's up for debate- are you one, very happy, two somewhat happy, three, fine, or four, not happy at all? ..._

For a second you can picture staying this way forever. The two of you, not exactly the picture of domestication, but happy. You can also picture walking down the aisle with him, but let’s not get too unrealistic. You think about what he’s doing and you hope he’s feeling better. Hopefully, the medicine worked for him. 

You think maybe you’re just like your mother. Plying him with pills. You push that thought to the side because you know that’s not true even though she tells you it is but it’s not and you know that, right? Because that article said that people who were abused, if you could even call his mother abusive, she was just looking out for him, can create a cycle of abuse with their next partner. He’s not your partner, though, so you shouldn’t worry about that. You’re not like her. You won’t be like her.

_... Some fifty percent of our happiness is determined by our genes, the other forty from choice, the final ten from your environment ..._

The office doesn’t change. It hasn’t changed for the past nine years you’ve worked here and you wonder if you’re going to die here. You thought you would die in the monster’s cave a few months ago, but then you’re back here and it feels so small. Everyone looks at the scar on your cheek. You're one of those lions they keep in the zoo. Everyone staring. You just want to go back to the Savannah, back with your pride, and roam. See the way the sun sets over the plains. Breathe in the night air and not have to worry about office birthdays, or getting a tapeworm from eating raw meat. Not that you really want to eat raw meat, but it's a metaphor. 

‘Mornin' Eddie.’

_Hey, Kurt._

‘How are you?’

_Fine. You?_

‘I’m okay. How’s Myra?’

_I don’t know._

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot.’

Sit down at your desk. Stare out the window for as long as you can bear focusing on one thing, which isn’t all that long. You remember being a kid and time was always flying by, but you would run with it, jumping and screaming with joy. Now it feels like there are not enough hours in the day to get anything done, no matter how much work you finish. The mess on your desk makes you feel like you’re drowning. Open your phone and look through your texts, a little bit closer this time.

**Bill Denbrough**

How do I send you a video?

**Bill Denbrough (2)**

Found it – never mind.

**Bill Denbrough (3)**

Image attachment.

**Stan Uris**

Patty is well... How’s NYC? Hope you are good...

**Stan Uris (2)**

Should arrange something for the holidays… Miss you guys… All the best…

**Ben Hanscom**

STAN IS MAKING HOLIDAY PLANS ALREADY HE JUST TEXTED ME LETS FIGURE OUT WHERE WE CAN ALL MEET BEV SAYS SHE WANTS TO GO TO STANS PLACE BUT THEN U AND RICHIE WOULD HAVE TO FLY OUT BEV AND I ARE ALREADY FLYING EVERYWHERE SO IT DOESNT MATTER AND BILL AND MIKE ARE ALREADY ON THE ROAD BUT I KNOW U DONT LIKE PLANES SO I THINK WE SHOULD ALL TALK ABOUT IT DID U SEE THE PICTURES BILL SENT OF THE GRAND CANYON THEY ARE STUNNING AND SO IS ITALY YOU WOULD LOVE IT HERE

**Ben Hanscom (2)**

OKAY LET ME KNOW BEVERLY SAYS HI

You see your boss looking into your office and you put the phone down. You know that he wouldn’t fire you, you’ve been here so fucking long it’d be an insult, but you have been slacking ever since you came back from Derry- you also have to leave early today and you’d really rather not have him talk to you about your performance. You send one more text:

**Eddie K.**

Still sick Rich?

**DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS**

10/3/2016

To: edwardk@outlook.com

From: _[myra.kaspbrak1971@sympatico.com](mailto:myra.kaspbrak1971@sympatico.com) _

Eddie,

A reminder that today we are meeting at Ted’s office for 3:00 P.M. Much to discuss today and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. If you are coming, please reply so I can confirm with Alyssa.

Best regards,

Myra K.

You know your wife knows that you’d never forget a meeting but you know she just wants the excuse to crawl back into your life. Close your email tab.

It’s work, so you try to do it. Crunching numbers isn’t particularly rewarding but you’re good at it and on top of that New York rent you also have to pay for a lawyer, which your soon to be ex-wife reminds you of every time she texts you or emails you or calls you after midnight. You picked up the phone the first few times because you felt bad for her and she sounded drunk. The apartment was empty, it felt weird. Then your roommate moved in and if you were to have a conversation at midnight he’d hear it, you don’t want him to hear you talking to your ex-wife. You want to forget she ever even existed just so that he can be the only person you ever loved. You stop texting her back when he asks you what you’re always doing on your phone. You tell him you’re checking your emails and he tells you to stop worrying about work with that easy smile that comes so naturally to him and you can’t help but put your phone down and agree.

You think you think about Richie too much. Focus, let’s get at least one thing done today. Your work stares at you and you stare right back.

_...To know when things are good because you've seen when they're not..._

You sit across from your wife in a mahogany draped room and you know she’s been crying. You figure if you’d been with her nearly eighteen years and didn’t know when she had been crying, you would be a bad husband. You think you weren’t. You tried to be good. You really tried, even though she sits across from you and rakes your name through the mud.

She says you were unhappy.

She says you yelled at her.

She says you spent too much time at work.

She says you’d watch gay porn in your office-

You tell her to shut up and your lawyer, Ted, grabs your shoulder and tells you to calm down. You say you _are_ calm but he requests a sidebar. In his office, you find your hand going to the familiar spot in your pocket where you used to keep your aspirator. It's not there anymore, you remind yourself. Ted asks you if her stories are actually true.

_Not really,_ you offer, but if you’re being honest, she’s not completely wrong.

Ted looks at you. _She’s going to take as much as she can,_ Ted says _. You need to step up unless you want to be out on the street._

You remind him you don’t care that much about the money.

Ted says it’s not about the money. _It’s about winning the war, Eddie. It's about you taking the money that's yours and moving to Vegas, blowing it all on hookers and coke. And hey, if Vegas isn't your thing, maybe a place in the San Fran arts district and a leather daddy costume._

You want to tell him to go fuck himself. 

You’re back in the mahogany room and she’s staring at you with beady little eyes you pretended you didn’t see on your wedding day. The same blue as your mother’s.

She says you never really loved her.

You say that’s not true. 

She says you cheated on her.

You say that’s not true, because it’s not.

She asks you why you went back home, why you ran out on her.

You tell her you can’t answer that. Her lawyer writes something down on a notepad and you can feel your bank balance empty. 

As soon as you get out of that office you text your best friend.

**Eddie K.**

Shitty day.

**Eddie K.**

Wish we could have done something instead.

**Eddie K.**

Are you feeling better?

He doesn’t respond. He’s probably asleep. He’s usually having a nap this time of day, around four when the exhaustion catches up to him- you know he doesn’t sleep at night. Then you notice none of the messages to him are delivering. He probably just has his phone off. That’s nothing to worry about. People do that and Richie barely uses his phone anyway, so it makes sense.

You’re back at your office, back to staring at your screen. You can leave in an hour and wonder why you even came back. Why you keep coming back. You figure it’s the same thing that made you stay with Myra. You figure it’s the same thing that made you stay obedient to your mother. You think you’ll punch a hole in the wall.

_...Happiness is not pursued, it's ensued..._

When you get back home you’re exhausted- it feels like you barely did anything. You know you’ll see him and that makes you feel better. You open the door and call his name- did you get my texts?

He calls back, his voice strained in a way that makes your stomach turn. You drop your briefcase and run to his room, drop to his side. He’s on the bedroom floor clutching at his chest. He’s knocked his side table over and the blankets have been dragged down onto the floor. His breathing is ragged. Every inhale sounds like agony.

He says he’s having a heart attack.

You’re not sure if he is so you tell him he’s not because he looks like he’ll start freaking out even more if you tell him he might be right. You ask him if he can stand and he shakes his head no. You get your phone out of your pocket and dial 911, and his words aren’t making much sense but it sounds like he’s trying to tell you to stop, but how could you stop? He needs to be okay. He made it through an inter-dimensional space clown. He can make it through this. 

You tell him to try to relax, okay? Try to breathe.

You’re not sure if he’s listening because he’s too busy telling you to stop, put the phone down, and that he’s fine, but that’s clearly not true. The line connects on the other end and you give them your address and apartment number and the dispatcher tells stop shouting, calm down, they’ll have someone there in five minutes. You can’t hear your best friend babbling anymore and stop yelling at the dispatcher.

Richie? Hey, Richie? Can you hear me?

For a second you think he’s dead, but when you check his pulse it’s still beating. You don’t know how much longer that will last so you hold his hand and you pray to a god you haven’t believed in since your dad died.

You talk to the doctors and when you tell them you’re his roommate they ask for his wife. You tell them he doesn’t have a wife. They ask for his parents. You tell them he hasn’t spoken to his parents since he was twenty-two. They ask for his girlfriend. You tell them he’s your partner.

Partner? They ask.

Boyfriend, you say unsurprised at how foreign that word feels on your tongue, but surprised at how good it feels to say that. They let you sit in the same room as they run an ECG. He hasn’t stopped breathing yet. They tell you as soon as they know that it’s heart palpitations.

Heart palpitations? You ask. You had been preparing for him to be dead.

The doctor starts to explain what a heart palpitation is but you tell him you already know what that is- your mom had taken you to the hospital for them when you were ten but the doctors then had said nothing was wrong but she still made you take those stupid fucking sugar pills for them. The doctor says it looks like a pretty bad panic attack. Does he have a history of anxiety?

You think to yourself, _how could I have missed that?_

You remember the time by the fridge when you called him jumpy but you were too busy thinking about him on his knees, or your mouth on his mouth, or his hands on your hips- fuck, focus- to realize something was going on. You put your head in your hands and don’t care about all the things you’ve touched since you last washed your hands because a part of you knows it was never even about the germs, or the medicine, or every disease you could imagine- it was about control.

God, and you’re thinking about yourself again when your best friend is in a hospital bed.

The doctor tells you that he’ll be fine and that they need the bed for another patient. You tell them you can’t take him home if he’s still out cold so they help you move him into the lobby. Maybe you should move to a place with better healthcare. The ride here probably costs three grand already, then for the hour he spent in the hospital bed, the ECG… Maybe Canada is nice this time of year. Why do you even stay here?

He leans against your shoulder. He’s only wearing a hospital gown the doctor’s had to set him up in. You take off your suit jacket and drape it over him. Don’t let him catch a cold. Keep your right hand around his forearm, fingers on his pulse. Make sure he’s okay. Check your phone with your left hand. There’s an email about Pottery Barn having a sale but that feels incredibly unimportant given the circumstances. Let them know.

**Eddie K. to The Losers Club**

Richie is in the hospital.

**Bill Denbrough to The Losers Club**

Is he okay?! What happened?!

**Ben Hanscom to The Losers Club**

CAN I HELP IS HE ALRIGHT

**Eddie K. to The Losers Club**

He had a panic attack and passed out. Doctors say he is fine now. Will keep you posted.

**Mike Hanlon to The Losers Club**

oh no :-(

You wish your friends would learn how to text like normal people because they’re starting to make you feel old. You’re pretty sure Ben has a broken phone and that Mike is still on a BlackBerry. A notification pops up from outside of the group and you go to your text chain with Beverly, mostly pictures of her and Ben's dog up until now. 

**Bev Marsh**

Last call I had Richie mentioned he was not feeling well

**Bev Marsh (2)**

I should have done more

**Eddie K.**

He told you he wasn’t feeling well?

**Bev Marsh**

Which means he did not tell you

**Bev Marsh**

That is so Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no :((((
> 
> if i finish my exams and then write for three days straight i will be able to post the Christmas chapter by Christmas and wouldnt that be nice 
> 
> also fuck myra for having a fucking SYMPATICO email what kind of sociopath does that also fucking her for still not changing her last name
> 
> also fuck eddie for that dramatic ass text 'Richie is in the hospital' who the fuck sends that are you trying to make everyone shit themselves jfc eds sloppy bitch


	7. How to Start to Let Someone In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: internalized homophobia, anxiety

When Richie wakes up he’s leaning on someone’s shoulder.

There’s Eddie. Sitting next to him on one of those standard-issue hospital waiting room chairs. It’s Eddie’s shoulder he’s leaning on, in fact. Eddie’s looking down at his phone, wearing his clothes from work. He’s just in his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose, brow furrowed. His suit jacket is on top of Richie.

‘Hey,’ Richie greets. His voice feels hoarse. Eddie tries to turn to look at him without moving Richie from his spot, having to look at Rich from the corner of his eye. Richie can only see the profile of his face. He looks like an angel with the way the harsh LED lights outline his features. He is an angel. He had saved him. Were they in heaven?

‘It wasn’t a heart attack.’ Eddie says, surprisingly calm. No, they weren’t in heaven. Richie blinks hard, conjuring memories of what had happened. Fuck. His head hurts, still, but mostly he’s just tired. Eddie keeps talking. He sounds mad. ‘I told you it wasn’t a heart attack. The doctors still had to check though.’

Richie looks around the small waiting area. Yeah, they’re in a hospital. No doubt. He feels like he’s in a place out of time. Like an airport, or a Motel 6 hallway. Or like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

‘Once they ran the ECG they found out it was just heart palpitations, so they had to give the room to someone else. It’s busy tonight, you’d think a Monday wouldn’t be busy,’ Eddie keeps going, words tight and fast. ‘but there was a pileup on the GWB, or something, I don’t remember, but they told me to wait with you here until you woke up, go find a nurse and let them know, and then go back home.’

'I hate Mondays.’ Richie whines, putting on his best Garfield impression. It’s doesn’t even sound like Garfield. He just sounds tired. An orderly rushes past and he feels a brush of cold wind against his balls, now acutely aware he was in a hospital gown. Had… had Eddie seen him change? Had Eddie seen his butt?

‘You had a severe panic attack, Richie.’ Eddie responds. ‘So severe. I didn’t know you had anxiety, dude, you should have told me.’

‘No,’ Richie counters because he can’t think of anything else and he can practically feel the rings under his eyes with how tired he is. Is there a water fountain nearby?

‘Then what was that?’

'I don’t know- I hadn’t eaten all day? I think the last time I drank water was 2012?’

_C’mon, Eddie, laugh. Let me know we’re okay._

‘Bev told me you told her that you weren’t feeling great lately.’ Eddie says.

_Fuck. J_ _ust change the topic._

‘Can we go home?’

‘If something is wrong, you can tell me. I’d want you to tell me.’

Richie turns his face into Eddie’s shoulder and lets out a muffled scream. Eddie still doesn’t laugh. An announcement blares over the P.A. system, some medical code Richie can’t make out, and then goes quiet. Richie looks up to Eddie and sees Eddie looking down at him. Those stupid, melting, brown eyes full of concern.

‘You can tell me, Richie,’ He repeats. Richie darts his gaze away, trying to preserve some of his dignity. ‘You don’t have to protect me.’

Eddie says it so convincingly Richie thinks he might believe him. Might.

Richie closes his eyes. ‘Can we go home, please?’

They find a nurse to run a check-up, make him eat some crackers and chug a thing of juice, and then give Richie the ‘all-clear’ and a recommendation to visit his G.P. as soon as possible. Eddie curtly explains that G.P means ‘general practitioner’, as they walk towards the exit. Richie, in return, curtly explains that he’s walking around with his whole ass out and they find a bathroom.

Eddie hands Richie a plastic bag full of his clothing, the same clothing he had come in. His t-shirt is still damp with sweat. Eddie, on the other side of the stall Richie was changing in, throws his button-up over the stall door.

‘But then you don’t have a shirt,’ Richie points out.

‘I have an undershirt on, it’s fine,’ Eddie replies.

‘Hey, um,’ Richie begins to ask through the stall door. Make him laugh. ‘Did you bring my phone? Because I was getting really close to beating this level on Angry Birds, and I’d really like to-‘

‘Can you just change?’ 

Eddie stands as Richie sits on the edge of the curb, the fresh air complete relief, and they don’t say anything to each other, which is difficult. Richie goes through his repository of jokes and tries to think of the ones Eddie likes (or maybe not likes, but responds to) the most- I fucked your mom, I’ll show you a staph infection, did you hear the one about the hypochondriac with an Oedipus complex? You’ll love it.

Nothing feels appropriate.

The street isn’t busy- Richie figures it’s late at this point. What, he had started to die at six, then a few hours in the hospital? Maybe it’s ten o'clock? There’s a homeless guy shouting about how God is dead or something down the street, the echoes of his voice cascading to where the two of them stood. Nothing Richie doesn’t know already. Eddie talks to the Uber driver on his cell, telling him that he’s coming from the wrong direction and that he’s not gonna make his sick friend cross the street.

‘No, he’s not like _vomit_ sick, he’s just- great, they fuckin’ cancelled the ride,’ Eddie says, but mostly to himself. Then his head is in his phone again and another Uber is on its way. Richie watches Eddie talk to the next driver, navigating the driver towards the two of them. Richie remembers a girlfriend from L.A. letting him drive himself home after getting his wisdom teeth out because she had just got her nails done- and surprise, the story ends with him crashing his car into a telephone pole two seconds after pulling out of parking lot.

When Richie starts to shiver, Eddie takes off his blazer and hands it to him without a single word.

_Oh._

Richie can’t take his eyes off Eddie in the Uber, the two of them seated in the back. Eddie is looking at his phone again, the cold light shining up on his face. There are streetlights every other second that cast yellowish glows over his still-bare biceps, just in that flimsy undershirt, the moon, his phone, and the streetlights battling to light him. He kinda looks like Marlon Brando, screaming ‘STELLA!’. He kinda looks like Freddie Mercury, just missing the light-wash, skin-tight jeans. He looks a lot like Eddie Kaspbrak, the bravest man Richie knows.

Maybe some of that bravery has rubbed off, Richie hopes. _Do it now._

‘Hey, Eds,’ Richie says.

Eddie looks up from his phone and meets Richie’s eye. Richie, from the corner of his eye, can see the Uber driver looking at them through the rearview mirror. There’s no yellow glow behind them. There’s no red balloon floating in the passenger seat. It’s just some guy trying to make ends meet, but fuck, it’s a reminder. _Change of plans._

‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’

Eddie offers him a taut smile and half a nod. Richie moves his hand off his lap and places it over the hump in between the two of them. Eddie looks back out the window but makes sure his hand winds up next to Richie’s, Eddie's fingers on top of his. It’s not quite something, but it’s not nothing. Baby steps, Tozier.

They don’t say much the rest of the way home, apart from thanking their driver and then trying to decide how much to tip. Eddie says thirteen percent. Richie gets him to bump it up to twenty-five. By the time they crawl through the front door, it’s nearly midnight.

'Go lie down.’ Eddie tells him, his voice soft. Richie listens, he’s not sure he could object at this point, moving towards his bedroom door. ‘No, in my room.’

‘Wha?’ Richie squeaks, turning to look at Eddie. He’s still standing in the foyer, taking his shoes off and placing them neatly next to each other.

‘I have a sound machine.’ Eddie says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. Richie stares at him. ‘Just- just go lie down.’

Maybe he’s nervous, but mostly he’s exhausted, so Richie does. Eddie’s bed has a much nicer duvet than Richie’s, he realizes as he sinks into the blankets. Then Eddie’s in the room, moving around. He hears Eddie put his keys down on his dresser. A button clicks and whale sounds filling the room, baying for something Richie thinks he can understand.

‘Do you need it louder?’ Eddie asks.

On the edge of sleep, Richie mumbles something that resembles a ‘naw’.

Then Eddie’s steps are out of the bedroom, down the hallway. Richie is pretty sure he dips in and out of sleep before Eddie comes back.

‘Sit up,’ Eddie says, so Richie sits up.

Eddie’s hands are on his chest and Richie’s about to ask him what he’s doing before Eddie starts to unbutton Richie’s shirt. That’s what he’s doing. Now? They’re gonna do this now?

‘Hey,’ Richie grunts sleepily, he can feel his heart rate jumping. It’s not quite a protest- Richie remembers somewhere in the back of his head that he still has those hickeys on him… but if Eddie wants to do this now, then so does Richie. He wills his tired head to move forward, but Eddie looks at him as if he’s a living booger.

‘I brought you one of your t-shirts.’ Eddie says, once again so matter-of-fact that Richie feels stupid for thinking anything else- and scared that he was okay with it.

‘Oh,’ Richie whispers. He sticks his arms up above his head. Eddie slides the rest of his shirt off and then one of Richie’s familiar, cotton-blend shirts slides back onto him and he falls back into bed.

Eddie’s steps move away again. Richie can smell lavender and remembers Eddie talking about one of Myra’s essential oil vaporizers. Eddie’s steps come back and then there’s a weight on the other side of the bed. 

‘Remember when we’d have sleep-overs like this?’ Eddie asks. It’s the same whispery tone that talked about super-heroes and skinned knees in the wee hours of the night when they were still in grade school. The context now feels like anything but that, but the core is the same. The two of them, together, tired.

When Richie was a kid he didn’t know how to think about Eddie’s hands on his chest, undoing the buttons on his shirt, with one thought at the front of his brain, but Richie nods. The core is the same. The two of them. Richie and Eddie. R+E, carved into the side of the kissing bridge, some deep memory Richie hadn’t quite known- and honestly, hadn't wanted to remember, until a few months ago. It feels biblical in its size now. How could you ever forget that?

Things are quiet for a second, only whales calling and the way Eddie was breathing, hushed and steady. Richie finds himself matching Eddie’s pace. It’s not silence, but fuck, it’s close. Silence is terrifying. Say something. Pop a joke.

‘I saw you die.’ Richie says and realizes that’s not something anybody wants to hear and, what the fuck, it’s no-where even close to a joke. Eddie moves in bed, and Richie doesn’t want him to leave, so he turns over onto his side to look at him, but there’s Eddie, looking right back at him. There’s the same scar on Eddie’s cheek from what happened back home, still as pale as him.

‘What?’ Eddie asks, barely more than a whisper. Night-time demands silence.

‘In the deadlights. If I hadn’t- in the cave, if I hadn’t moved you, then you would’ve died.’ Richie can feel a lump growing in his throat so he shuts up. The words decide to force themselves out anyway, clawing their way out of his mouth. ‘Like, seriously die. You would’ve died, and then I would too.’

'You die to the clown?’ Eddie asks, and Richie really wishes he hadn’t.

‘I kill myself, because you die.’ He says, pushing down a sob. It doesn’t work. The sound falls out, ragged and ugly, but Eddie moves forward and is wrapping Richie up in his arms. Richie sniffles, he tries to take a deep breath, please don’t fuckin’ cry in front of Eddie, but then he’s sobbing into Eddie’s shoulders.

‘Fuck, sorry,’ Richie tries to get out, tries, to breathe, but it’s just garbled words.

‘It’s alright,’ Eddie says, nestled into the crook of Richie’s neck as his body convulses against his will. Richie moves his arms and wraps them around Eddie’s back. There’s that voice, that stupid fucking voice, that tells him:

_Don’t touch the other boys, Richie._

Richie remembers to pull back from Eddie, but thankfully Eddie is holding him too tight for him to getaway. Eddie holds him even tighter, if that was physically possible, the cotton of Eddie’s nightshirt practically moulding into Richie’s snot-filled face.

‘You’re alright,’ Eddie says again. Richie thinks that he might believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hwewo
> 
> i had to delete an entire chapter that came after this (5600 WORDS) because it threw off the pacing and made eddie kind of inconsistent to where i want him to get but it was real good and i might make it into a one-shotter because i think it has my favourite piece of writing i've done yet it was real sweet and cathartic my gosh but just not getting this story where i want it to be for the end, so to the scrap bin it goes
> 
> anyways what to say about this one 
> 
> uhhh kind of just a mover from point a to point b but hey things r looking up aren't they wonder how long that will last (hopefully forever but i suck at fluff so who knows) 
> 
> anyway ok 
> 
> thank u for reading my dudes kudos and comments much apreciate let me know if ur vibin 
> 
> also i haven't linked my tumblr yet for any new readers so here it is: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mrfart69
> 
> feel free 2 vibe or send prompts or really anything because i am bored as shit on winter break rn 
> 
> anyways 
> 
> ok thatsa all for now love u


	8. Halloween (Or, How to Be A Sad Drunk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of past abuse (light), anxiety attacks, drinking

Eddie is out the door, closing it as gently as he can behind him. It still makes a slam that feels muffled in the carpeted hallway- which, disgusting, by the way. Imagine how much gunk is wrapped up in the micro-fibres. When was the last time it had been deep cleaned?

The elevator too- the mirrors lining the walls were smudged with tiny fingerprints. Grubby kids running around with chickenpox, or staph infections, or tetanus, or something or other that would leave you dead or infected. Eddie realizes he’s trapped in a box with all that and stops himself from vomiting before he takes a gulp of air and plugs his nose, uttering a silent prayer that nobody else was in the elevator to see him like this.

In the apartment lobby, he lets go of the breath he was holding, sputtering as he walks out the door. He’s hit with a blast of wind- city wind. City wind, carrying up the shit germs from the ocean, or the man’s who was coughing down the street’s small-pox. Gag, again. Try to think for a second.

‘What the fuck,’ Eddie curses under his breath, at nothing in particular.

Myra had said that when the germs got to be too much, come to her. She could take care of it- and she had, every single time Eddie needed the help. Be it with doctor’s appointments and anti-biotics or the creature comforts of a warm, shared bed and a predictable routine of dinner, jeopardy, and then bed. Eddie takes his phone out of his pocket and doesn’t have the will to stop himself as he presses the ‘call’ button.

One ring, two rings.

Hang up.

‘What the fuck,’ Eddie curses again. He looks up at his building, at his window, half-expecting to see a face looking back at him. Myra or Richie’s, maybe. Hopefully not the ghastly white one that’s been popping up in his dreams a bit more often, ever since that night. Nothing is there.

Maybe, just maybe, ever since Richie brought up Derry, Eddie had been slightly more on edge than usual. He could try to ignore it, like he had ignored a failing marriage, or kept trying to ignore the thought of her winning the divorce on top of that. The emails and the meetings made it particularly hard. She had backed down on the lies, but she still had a case- yeah, maybe he’d been a bit of an asshole. If you have someone in your life for that long, not every moment is a shiny thing of joy. Some are real fuckin’ turds.

‘Remember?’ His brain hisses, before tossing him back to a real, huge turd of a night.

They’re in a hotel room, not a particularly nice one, Eddie recalls. The painting on the wall isn’t actually a painting, but a greasy print- one of those hotel rooms. It hadn’t been their first choice of rooming, but an appointment had opened up and they had to go. They were on a visit to a doctor who specialized in fertility, in Washington. Eddie can hear himself yelling at her. Had she forgotten to pack something? 

She’s not afraid of him, and he knows because she doesn’t have any reason to be, he thinks, but the way her face twists and contorts, with these short little breaths of air- she’s trying to steady herself. Eddie raises his hand in the air and she blinks, as if was going to land on her. Eddie doesn’t care, though, he was still shouting- screaming, about something he couldn’t even remember ten years later. Had it been worth it?

It dawns on Eddie that he may not have been as good a husband as he thought he had been.

‘Eddie, dude, are you good?’ A voice asks, tapping his shoulder. Eddie whips around. Richie is there, but Richie as Austin Powers, velour suit and everything.

Eddie makes a sound.

‘Are you going somewhere, bud?’ Richie asks. ‘Last minute date before the party?

‘No- no,’ Eddie looks down at his shoes. ‘Just needed some air.’

‘That’s what windows are for, dumbass.’ Richie ruffles Eddie’s hair, making Eddie swat at him.

‘Fuck you, bro!’ Eddie shouts, shoving at him. Richie laughs, barely moved, before sticking his hand up in the air and waving at a cab.

‘If you didn’t notice, you left without me, dude. Made me feel like the multiple times mom forgot me in the supermarket- remember the one next to Donald’s? With the laminate floors? Oh, or that one time she left for Auntie May’s without me- I was Kevin McAllister, basically, again-’ Richie says.

‘I said I just needed air.’ Eddie restates. Richie gives him a look. ‘Sorry.’

‘Are you feeling okay?’ Richie asks. He shouldn’t have to, with everything Richie had going on in his head. Not that he ever spoke about it after that night, but he said he had gotten in with a psychiatrist, so Eddie only worried a little bit, as opposed to a whole lot.

'Yeah, fine. Get in the car.’

Because Halloween only has, like, one song, Monster Mash is playing as they enter the club. It’s a fancy one, too, all the way up in a penthouse space with big, towering ceilings flashing with neon lights, women swinging from silk, and cocktail waitresses in these tiny little dresses carrying giant trays of vodka that Richie eyes, giving Eddie a smirk. It all makes Eddie feel old.

‘Why do we have to be here again?’ Eddie asks, leaning up to make sure Richie can actually hear him over the pounding song- it’s weird because it’s the same song that they had trick-or-treated too back in the 80s, and drunk too (or, in Eddie’s case, tried to drink to) before Richie had moved away to Colorado in junior year, leaving Eddie and Mike as the final two Losers. It’s also weird they’re at a club in their forties, but Richie seems totally unbothered.

‘Because it’s Halloween, and Jason made me, and I’m making you,’ Richie says, walking up to the bar and standing behind the small line for drinks. Eddie follows him over. ‘Put on your sunglasses so people know who you are, man.’

Eddie does.

‘What a cute little men- man, in black, huh?’

‘Fuck you, Richie.’ Eddie takes the sunglasses off, tucking them into his collar. ‘Fuck. You.’

Richie just smiles like a dumbass, and, yeah, he has nice teeth- by no will of his own. Wentworth Tozier, Derry’s second favorite dentist, had made sure of it, even through all of the whining about how much headgear hurt. Eddie can feel his eyes rolling just at the thought of how much Richie had complained, and Eddie, who usually just unwinds with a glass of pinot, downs a shot. Richie gives out a cheer before following suit and ordering two more.

‘Link arms, Spaghetti, like this,’ Richie links their arms together. ‘And on three, okay? One… two… three!’

Go! And it burns, a little bit, Eddie feels the liquid trail down his throat and the warmth spread through his chest. It’s not an unexpected feeling, but maybe alcohol has grown a lot stronger since the last time he had done shots. One night in business school, Eddie thinks, is the last time he had done that, something about a rite of passage for the incoming class- he was already married at that point, so he had spent the entire evening worrying about what Myra would think.

‘Hey- Jason!’ Richie exclaims, waving the man over. He’s also dressed in a black suit, sunglasses on- who wears sunglasses inside, first of all- with his arm around a woman dressed like Miley Cyrus.

‘Trashmouth! Groovy, baby!’ Jason has to shout back, before realizing Eddie. ‘You’re an agent too!’

Its kind of like looking in a mirror, except Jason is an inch shorter. Small victories, literally. 

‘Get it, cause’ I’m an agent- who’s also an agent? It’s fuckin’ smart, that’s what it is.’

Eddie forces himself to laugh. Richie just does.

‘You’re a genius, man,’ Richie says, clapping Jason’s shoulder. ‘You remember Eddie, right?’

‘Yeah, the ‘best friend’ you didn’t talk to for twenty-seven years, how could I forget? I mean, the two of you did- how does that even work?’ Jason laughs, before grinning at Eddie and sticking his hand out for him to shake.

‘I’m not trying to catch anything.’ Eddie says.

‘What the fuck?’ Jason laughs uneasily.

‘Sorry.’ Eddie adds, not even attempting to seem like he means it.

‘Don’t worry about him, he’s like that. Be nice, Eds. He’s my saving grace.’ Richie pulls Jason into his side, and the Miley makes a pouting face. Jason shouts something into Richie’s ear before reconnecting with his date and withdrawing into the crowd. 

‘I want another drink!’ Eddie shouts.

‘Get one, then!’ Richie says, simple as that. The song changes, something gothic, and Richie’s face lights up. He gasps. ‘ABBA.’

He’s right- Lay All Your Love Me. Eddie barely has time to grab his drink from the bartender before Richie is pulling him into the throng of people. There’s the faintest sound of Richie trying to sing to each word, the lyrics definitely fucked up, as he starts bobbing to the music. Eddie holds his drink close to his chest- he had just paid about thirty bucks for it – and moves slightly. He doesn’t dance. It’s loud. There’s too many people- this must be a safety hazard. What if someone has a knife- or a cold?

Richie’s voice comes out of the jumbled verse, to the chorus, probably the only words he actually knew. It was only twenty or so words total, so it was hard to be impressed, especially considering how long the song had been around for.

‘I beg of you!’ He sing-songs, hitting a falsetto that makes his voice go whistly, barely heard over the crowd. Eddie laughs. ‘Don’t-go-wastin’-your-eeee-motion!’

Richie grabs Eddie’s shoulders, moving them back and forth to make him dance. Eddie groans, but gives a bit more effort, putting his hips into it.

‘There you go!’ Richie laughs, miming Eddie’s actions. Richie moves forward and takes Eddie’s drink from his hand, or tries, but just ends up lifting the drink and Eddie’s hand with it, up to his face and takes a sip.

‘Eet was like shooting a sit-ing duck! Ba-ba-ba-ba, and ba-bey, I was stuck!’ Is all Richie can get out before he starts laughing at himself. By the time the chorus rolls back around, he’s jumping around and singing along, probably the happiest Eddie has seen him since the day he asked Richie to move in. It’s stupidly infectious- Eddie starts to dance and sing along with him. Probably the happiest he had felt since he asked Richie to move in with him.

They spend ten more songs and three more drinks on the floor before Richie has to tap out, to ‘take a piss bigger than your mother’, which really wasn’t his best. Eddie finds himself on the roof, where a slightly quieter party was going on. Purple and orange lights illuminate the area, a smaller open bar and beautiful masked couples lounging around. A Princess Leia gingerly kisses a Kanye West, which is adorable, in a weird way. Eddie finds a cool spot by the railing, looking over the city. Lights sparkle up at him, the cars barely specks all the way down on the ground. There’s an urge to spit just to see how far it would go before it was out of view. Eddie inhales.

There’s so much going on, all the time, but maybe that’s okay. Eventually, it would have to lead to something good, right? The universe owes him something good at this point, Eddie decides. Get through your mother, get through your wife, get through the clown, can I finally, please, get something good? 

‘There you are,’ Richie says as he walks up to Eddie, and he seems relieved. ‘I had to look everywhere for you, dude. Took twenty minutes!’

Had it been that long?

Eddie turns and smiles, but doesn’t say anything before he looks back out to the city. Richie moves up and stands next to him at the railing, staying quiet. A few minutes pass, only the city thrumming up at them and the low sounds of the party echoing out. They’re the only two people in the world, for all Eddie cares.

‘I think,’ Eddie starts to say, before he realizes he’s not sure what he thinks, and has to close his mouth.

'I think, that when your divorce wraps up, we should move- to L.A.’ Richie finishes. Eddie nods, because that does sound like a nice thought, but the reality isn’t that nice.

‘She’s gonna’ drag it out forever, man,’ Eddie groans, putting his head into the crook of his arm as he leans against the railing. ‘I fuckin’ deserve it, too.’

‘I don’t remember you being a sad drunk.’ Richie points out, placing a hand on Eddie’s back, somewhat tentatively at first, before starting to half rub and half pat circles onto Eddie’s suit. It’s probably the most awkward touch Eddie has ever received and Eddie snorts slightly.

‘Like, we loved each other? Right?’ Eddie explains, looking up at Richie, who removes his hand. ‘An’ I don’t think it was enough, Rich. She’s saying all these things, and it’s like, was I that bad? An’ maybe I was that bad, if that’s how she remembers it- am I bad?’

‘I wasn’t there- I don’t know.’ Richie says because it’s unfortunately, the truth.

‘Wish you had been cause’ then I probably woulda never got married in the first place,’ Eddie mumbles. ‘You woulda told me that you knew it wasn’t love-love, not real marriage love, at least- you know, we only ever slept together when we we’re tryna’ have a baby? Cause’ we figured we should have a baby, because that what every other couple does, but it din’t work- which is probably for the best because that kid, that kid woulda been fucked up- like us.’

‘Hey, speak for yourself,’ Richie fakes offence, but it’s soft.

‘This whole time I thought Myra was the bad one, but I don’t know if it’s like that anymore.’ Eddie admits with a drunken sigh. ‘I think it was all me, maybe.’

‘I don’t think things are that black and white here,’ Richie says. ‘You’re a… complicated person, and it sounds like you ended up in a complicated marriage.’

Eddie shrugs.

‘But you are a good guy, Eddie.’

‘No, m’ not.’

‘You are.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No- I’m not.’

‘Yes- you are. I love you, man.’ Richie wraps his arm around Eddie, who finally picks his head up.

‘I love you too, dude.’ Eddie says back, surprised at how soft his own voice sounds. Eddie pulls him into a full hug, burying himself in Richie's chest. ‘I really wish you had been there.’

‘Yeah, and I wish you had been there to stop me from doing blow in college, but guess what? A weird alien curse fucked everything up, and we gotta figure out how to live with that.’ Richie says, and Eddie can feel the baritone of his voice vibrating from how close they are, Richie's uneasy hands attempting to caress his back. 

‘I don’t know if you’re really smart, or if I’m really drunk.’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s both,’ Richie answers.

‘Are you shaking?’ Eddie asks. Richie, whose face shows that he hadn’t thought Eddie would notice, nods sharply before he speaks.

‘Cold- it’s cold. But I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ Eddie says and means it with every single fibre of his fractured being. Richie bounces his head up and down again, still trembling.

‘Psychiatrists orders, I can only cry once a month, so I’m gonna let go of you now.’ Richie says, his voice wobbly and Eddie nods as they separate. Richie doesn’t meet Eddie’s eye until he finishes wiping at his eyes, lifting his glasses.

‘Hows’it goin’, by the way?’ Eddie asks because the part of his brain that was still capable of thinking figures a hug probably wouldn’t put a mentally stable adult on the verge of tears.

It’s Richie’s turn to shrug, offering a dumb, sad smile to Eddie. ‘It’s goin’.’

‘Do you wanna talk ‘bout it?’

Richie shakes his head ‘no’, but then speaks after a second passes, letting out a shaky breath. ‘It’s kinda hard to navigate without getting myself put in an insane asylum, given, y’know, everything, but maybe it’ll be worth it, I don’t know.’

Eddie takes hold of Richie’s hand, pats his cheek. ‘You’re braver than you think.’

‘Oh, fuck you,’ Richie groans, pulling away. Eddie laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheres that tweet where its like if u ask a white person how its going and they say 'it's goin' they are contemplating suicide ? 
> 
> also https://www.instagram.com/p/B6Q37xjA6V-/?igshid=grd2viqw2jf6 another meme i stan 
> 
> anyway thats enough goofs and gags 
> 
> sorry for the shortness of the past 2 chaps, but next one is like 12 pages solid so it'll balance out  
> anyways!! thank u once again for reading, hope you are all doing well! ^.^


	9. The Holidays (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: internalized homophobia, homophobic slur

**Stan Uris to The Losers Club**

See u all soon… Guest rooms are prepped… <3

**Mike Hanlon to The Losers Club**

O.K. :-)

**Richie T. to The Loser Club**

Whos with who 😎😎😎

**Stan Uris to The Losers Club**

I do not care...

Richie looks up at Eddie from his laptop. They’re in his office, Eddie behind his desk and nose deep in some sort of number-y work Richie couldn’t get a grip, despite his stellar grades in AP Calc. The living room armchair had been dragged to the office, a spot for Richie to work. He usually just sat there and milled over emails, maybe try to put some jokes down on paper. Nothing really stuck. Sometimes Richie would read his material out loud, and if Eddie laughed at the joke, he kept it in. If Eddie didn’t laugh, it was a no-go. So far, after a good four months of trying, he had half a routine. The other half was due a month ago.

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

Dibs on bev

**Bev Marsh to The Losers Club**

1\. I am not an object 2. I am with Ben, who knows I am not an object

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

**Bev Marsh to The Losers Club**

Suck it

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

😢😢

‘Stop texting because you’re sending notifications to my screen and it’s annoying as fuck.’ Eddie says, all in the same breath, not even looking away from the laptop screen as his fingers click-clack-click and type something out.

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

💔

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

:’(

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

Remember when we used 2 have emojis this way guys 

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

D’:

**Richie T. to The Losers Club**

L.O.L :)

‘If I don’t get this done then we’re gonna miss the flight, dick.’ Eddie sighs. He stills fumes all the way to La Guardia. 

_-you have to be at the airport five hours before your flight, not two hours, Richie, five. Five hours, and planes- planes are a fucking death trap, you know that right? Fifty percent of all planes crash-_

You know that’s not true, right?

- _fifty percent of all planes crash, and then even if the plane doesn’t crash, the germs. The germs inside the plane, man. There are literally trillions of bacteria on one human being, then you get, like, two hundred people inside one plane_ -

The group chat buzzes every other second with a message about how excited everyone was. Richie can feel it too, the same feeling he used to get as a kid before Hannukah-mas, with good ol’ Maggie and Wentworth. Which reminds him he hadn’t even been on speaking terms with his parents when they had passed.

- _inside one plane, listen to me, that’s nearly… that’s six hundred quadrillion bacteria, any of which could be infectious, and then you’re stuck in the air with all that bacteria for five hours, breathing it all in_ -

Richie’s not sure when it got so hard to talk to other people. He thinks maybe it was when he left Derry as a teenager. Denver had been the fuckin’ pits.

- _stuck in the air, with god’s knows what, and sharing the same air as a hundred other strangers? It’s disgusting, frankly-_

‘I don’t wanna fuckin’ be here, mom, I miss my friends.’ Richie had said as he helped his mother bring boxes into their new house. The air felt different here, his skin felt wrong under his clothes. Everything- everything was just wrong.

‘It’s a little late for that now, Rich. Bring this to your father?’ She hands him a box. 

- _I don’t know why we have to fly, why couldn’t we just drive? I know it would take three days, but that’s just two people’s germs, and statistically, the chances of getting sick are a lot less if it’s just the two of us, not interacting with a thousand different strangers_ -

Richie walks into the new house. It’s empty, surprise, but it’s also _empty_. There’s no wall where his father had marked his growth spurts. There’s no cover-up job on the wall from the one time Richie and Bill had been running around the house with their toy spaceships, and then Bill had tripped so hard he left a dent. In Richie’s new room, there are no signatures from the Loser’s running along the baseboards, left there the day before Beverly moved away, starting the official, slow-moving dissolution of the Loser’s Club. Maybe that’s the moment he had started to forget when the first link broke.

Richie makes new friends. They’re cool. They hang out in parks, they smoke pot at mountain bases and break bottles because there was still no internet to fuck around on. Everyone else called him and his friends burn-outs but Richie was pulling a 3.5 GPA, so it didn’t really matter to him.

\- _Richie, listen, we can still drive and get there only a day and a half late if we leave now_ -

There’s still that feeling that never goes away, tugging at his leg and begging to be seen, like when Derrick laughs in that handsome way as broken glass splinters against a boulder. Or when Richie’s English teacher starts talking about Dickens, and yeah, it’s totally dorky, but it’s endearing, and it may be Richie’s best course, but not because he like-likes his teacher, because that’s gay and what, you noticed him staring? Nah, no way, man. I’m not some fuckin’ fag, that’s gay of you to even think that.

Richie drops the course and picks up a pointless Home Ec. credit, with a much less cute teacher.

Then there’s also the hole in his chest, one near his heart, that gets smaller with each passing day, reminding him that he misses his friends- that Stan is in Austin, and he should drive out to him, or something, that Ben had told him to call, that Eddie and Mike were still in Derry, and he should definitely write them, that voice reminding Richie until he forgets completely.

A year later, Richie moves to L.A. for university and doesn’t actually connect with anyone until he meets Jason, in 2001. By then Richie figures he was just used to not talking, not letting anyone get to know him- why change now?

‘- _And if we had just driven, then it would be okay,_ because now we have to go sit in a metal fucking tube, with a shit-ton of people we don’t know, and we don’t know their germs, but like, our bodies by now are used to each-others germs, and not all these new ones. You know, nearly ninety percent of people report getting sick after being on a plane?’ Eddie is wearing a neck-pillow, siphoning the airport lounge wi-fi on his laptop, still ranting as he looks through his emails.

_Because I want you to know me,_ Richie thinks. _I wanna be able to talk to you without feeling like the world is ending._

‘There, okay? Fuckin’ there.’ Eddie announces, closing the laptop screen with a snap that pulls Richie from his little world of thought. ‘Court date finalized. It’s almost fucking over, but about the flight, if I get sick I’m suing Delta-‘

‘Should I get you, like, a card when this is all over? ‘Congrats on Dead Marriage’?’ Richie teases. He realizes he had been slouching all this time and props himself up a bit better. ‘’Hurray- You Lost Your Wife!’?’

‘Do you want a Xanax? I need a Xanax.’ Eddie asks. Richie’s not sure the last time he heard Eddie take a breath. Eddie puts his laptop into his backpack and digs around. He finally retrieves an orange pill bottle, and offers a half-tablet up like a tic-tac.

‘Uh- yeah, actually.’ Richie answers, taking his half. Eddie swallows the other half dry, which is kind of impressive. 

The plane lands in the late afternoon. Stan is standing at the gate, smiling that small little smile of his. Richie lets out a surprised laugh as soon as he sees him, bursting into his fastest speed (a brisk speed-walk), and taking Stan into his arms with a grunt.

‘Stanny, Stanny, Stanny,’ Richie says, before pulling back and taking Stan’s face into his hands. ‘Stan, the man. I missed you more than words could ever say.’

‘If you don’t let go, I will press charges.’ Stan says, in the way Stan does. Richie takes Stan back into a hug before Eddie walks up, still very zenned-out, and moves Richie to the side to get his own hug from Stan without a single word. Richie giggles.

‘Are the two of you on something?’ Stan asks as soon as the two stand in front of him, side by side.

Eddie nods, a sleepy-lookin’ grin on his face. Richie smiles like a dork, looking at Eddie’s dopey face.

Stan drives them back to his house, which, woah- it’s, like, a real house. Not a barely three-bedroom apartment in the village, or a houseboat in Venice, or an RV making it’s slow, suicidal way across America. Patty, visibly pregnant, welcomes them in. She points out that she and Eddie seem to be wearing the same Lu-Lu Lemon sweater and Eddie laughs.

‘Beverly and Ben are napping, and Mike and Bill said they’ll be here at about seven,’ Stan says, helping to carry some of Eddie’s luggage. ‘So we can have dinner then.’

Stan takes them up the stairs, and holy shit is it a nice place, Richie comments, which Stan says is all Patty’s doing. Patty calls back that it was actually all Stan, and Richie guffaws because of course, it was Stan. Stan leads them down the hall and past what was called ‘the formal guest room’, where a very jetlagged Ben and Bev were, and up another smaller set of stairs, to the top floor- a cute little hideaway, with sloped roofs and with a spare bed set up in the middle of the floor.

‘I hope you two are okay with sharing, if not we can go by Wal-Mart tomorrow, pick up an air mattress.’ Stan explains, putting one of Eddie’s suitcases up by the wall.

Eddie doesn’t seem to mind as he crashes down onto the bed, not even bothering to take his airplane clothes off. Eddie mumbles something about how it’d be fine before his eyes close. 

‘Is he… asleep?’ Stan asks in a whisper.

‘I think so.’ Richie whispers back, putting down two more of Eddie’s bags and his own one duffle bag before leaving the room. 

Stan and Richie go down to the kitchen. Patty comes in and kisses Stan on the cheek, who eight years into the marriage, blushes, which is the cutest thing in the world, Richie thinks, and says so much, to which the both of them blush even harder before Patty leaves to go rest. There’s a sound system playing some Cat Steven’s album on low as Richie and Stan lazily work at preparing dinner. Richie more lazily than Stan, Stan points out.

‘Remember when we used to bake for your mom?’ Stan asks.

Richie nods. ‘When she’d let us.’

‘Is she still around?’

‘Kicked the bucket in o’ five, Stanny.’ Richie says, and Stan seems to take a moment of silence. ‘It’s fine, we weren’t close by then. My dad told me not to come to the funeral.’

‘Christ,’ Stan mumbles. ‘What did you do?’

‘Wow, why do you assume it’s my fault?’

‘Was it not?’

‘I mean, what is ‘fault’ anyway-’

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, it’s a personal matter.’ Stan says. But hey, Richie had promised Dr. Katz to try to open up to people at the last tightrope session, so let’s give it a try, huh?

‘It’s a boring story,’ Richie premises, but Stan doesn’t stop him, so he continues. ‘They paid my way through college, I dropped out without telling them, I was dumb and broke and kept taking money from them until they realized three years later, they made me come back home, we got in huge fight, mom cried, dad cried, shit, I cried too, I went back to Los Angeles in massive debt, then we didn’t really speak, then they both died. Boring.’

‘Do you regret it?’ Stan asks.

‘I’ll tell you if you give me some booze.’ Richie exhales.

‘We don’t keep any in the house.’

‘You don’t keep in any in the house! Then how are we supposed to- oh, you’re kidding,’ Richie corrects, seeing Stan pulling out two wine glasses from a cupboard. ‘Got me, Stan. Congrats.’

‘One for me, please?’ Beverly asks, softly walking into the kitchen. She holds down yawn and is absolutely gorgeous doing so. She’s tanned, tanner than she had been back in Maine, and wearing some fancy silk robe over a white t-shirt and some fancy looking sweat pants. When Richie wakes up, he looks like a three-month dead alley cat.

‘Bevvie!’ Richie coos, getting up and taking her in his arms. She kisses him gently on the cheek and returns the embrace. ‘Oh, you stylish minx, tell me everything about ee-tal-lee and that handsome man of yours.’

‘He’s sleeping, first of all, so let’s keep the volume down, hm?’ She says, and Stan giggles as he grabs another glass. ‘It was amazing, Rich, I told you, you should have come.’

‘And leave Eddie all alone?’

‘I told you to bring him too!’ Beverly giggles lightly. ‘And you said, if I can recall correctly, ‘as if’. As if what?’

‘As if it wasn’t hell enough to get him to fly four hours domestic,’ Richie remarks. He puts on his best Eddie impression, talking as fast as he can and going into a slightly higher voice: ‘Planes are death traps, you know, there are literally three-thousand infectious bacteria per-square inch in those sky cans, and- and- and-‘

‘You sound nothing like him.’ Stan says, giving Bev her glass. She nods in agreement.

‘Aw, fuck you guys.’

Mike and Stan arrive as promised at seven, the huge R.V. pulling into the driveway with a comical clank, then a loud thud, and then an unhinging screech. How they had gotten through all of California and New Mexico in that thing, only God knows.

‘There’s not even any snow,’ Bill remarks, his cheeks rosy as he takes his scarf off in the foyer. Beverly takes him into a hug, holding her second and a half glass of wine out at arm’s width so it doesn’t spill.

‘Not since Utah.’ Mike adds on, taking his hat off and shoving it in his jacket pocket before hanging it on the coat rack. Stan takes him into a tight hug, the two of them swaying with each other until they let go. Richie sends Mike a wave from the kitchen, which Mike returns with a smile.

‘He doesn’t even get up to see us, after all this time. No manners, whatsoever.’ Bill tuts to Mike, making sure he’s loud enough that Richie can hear.

‘I’m old and lazy!’ Richie calls, which Ben says woke him up when he comes into the kitchen a few minutes later. After he greets everyone he practically wraps himself around Beverly, the two intertwined like the snakes from the hospital cross, which would be kinda gross if it weren’t the two of them.

‘Where’s Eddie?’ Ben asks, looking to Richie from his perch on Beverly’s shoulder.

‘Xanned out upstairs.’

‘Why don’t you go get him?’ Stan supplies. Richie groans. ‘Go on.’

Richie leaves the kitchen with a quick terminator ( _a’ll be ba-hck_ ), which everyone laments at as he exits- like farting in an elevator before leaving, their groans and whines echoing up to Richie as he climbs the stairs. Then the second set of stairs, because he had forgotten Stan was a sociopath who was trying to torture him.

‘Eddie?’ Richie asks, with a soft knock at the door. No response, but that didn’t mean Eddie was dead, Dr. Katz had said. I know, kinda, Richie had expertly countered. Dr. Katz had asked him why Richie was so worried about his room-mate dying.

Richie had managed to weave a story about a serial killer terrorizing his childhood, then escaping twenty-seven years later and one of his friends dragging him back into town to take care of it, which, yeah, sounds insane and completely irrational. Which it kinda was. Richie and his childhood friends got tangled up with the killer, winding up in his old house where he terrorized them until the police came and shot him. That’s, like, semi-plausible, right? Dr. Katz had bought it so far, nodding along.

Richie takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. Although Richie had taken that pill six hours ago, the supposed relaxer which had worked so far, he can still feel the edge of anxiety creeping into him, just under the haze of that relaxation. Like, you know it’s there, but you can’t feel it, and it’s kinda entirely nasty. Like seeing a killer shark through clouded glass.

The lights are off, and Eddie is passed out on his stomach. ‘Hey, Eds?’

Richie moves over to the bed and plops down next to Eddie, who makes a tired groan. See? Alive.

‘Gangs all here, bud. Let’s go.’ Richie gives Eddie’s calf a pat, Eddie giving a grunt in return. Richie doesn’t blame the guy for sleeping. Stan’s house is cozy as fuck.

Eddie raises his head. Richie’s heart tells him to reach out and brush that little piece of hair from his face, and fuck it, man- he does. Eddie doesn’t bite at him or shove him off, he just rests his head and shuts his eyes, leaning into Richie’s hand before he can pull it away.

‘Time to get up,’ Richie says, and it’s all a little tender, so he adds, ‘bitch.’

Which gets Eddie to roll around, onto his back, and look up at Richie with a glare. ‘You know, some people are nice.’

‘Clearly I’m not.’ Richie grins. Eddie pushes himself up to a sitting position and stretches his arms over his head before leaning over and touching his toes. When the little routine is done, he looks back to Richie who realizes he’d been staring.

‘Hi,’ Eddie says. 

‘Hi,’ Richie says back. He’s not blushing, he tells himself, he’s just one and a half glasses of wine deep and gets flushed- it’s genetics. And yeah, Eddie is so close Richie can see every single pore on his face, but it’s fine, and it’s nothing bad, why would it be anything bad, and Richie definitely isn’t feeling a stampede of elephants in his stomach.

Eddie looks him over, with those stupid sparkling brown eyes you just drown in, and neither of them has the will to get up. _We could just stay here_ , Richie thinks. And they do, for a little bit, until Ben knocks on the doorframe.

‘It’s supper, are you guys coming?’ He asks, flicking on the light switch. ‘Why were you guys in the dark?’

‘Who the fuck says supper?’ Richie groans.

‘Ben!’ Eddie exclaims, clambering out of the bed and rushing to the guy. They embrace, then pull back, looking each other up and down.

‘The scar stuck around, huh?’ Ben asks, squinting at Eddie’s cheek.

‘Yeah, fucker, how about you?’ Eddie practically shouts, running a hand through his bedhead and fixing his belt. There’s a tiny click that Eddie hadn’t done that for Richie, which either meant that Eddie didn’t care what he looks like around Richie, or Eddie is comfortable enough around Richie to have messy hair. Richie hopes it’s the latter, because he looks really cute with bedhead.Or maybe Eddie was just awake now, which is probably what it was.

Ben lifts up his shirt and the jagged ‘H’ that used to run across his abdomen is gone, just smooth, sun-tanned skin and a rippling six-pack. You go, Bev.

‘Aw, fuck you, dude,’ Eddie pouts, before smiling and hugging Ben again, who laughs in the same light, bashful way he did as a kid. ‘How does that even work?’

Ben shrugs with a soft smile and the three of them head downstairs.

Assorted cries of ‘Eddie!’ come from the Losers as they all walk into the dining room, glasses raised and forks ready to eat. Ben moves to the empty seat next to Beverly, and Richie and Eddie take up the two empty spots left, right next to each other. About ten minutes into the meal Bill clears his throat. Nobody notices over the sound of the mix of conversations going on, then he does it again, more pointedly and the attention turns to him.

‘So, I’m a writer,’ He starts to say.

‘We know, dipshit.’ Richie wittily retorts, which Bill pushes past without comment.

‘And I’ve been working on my next one- next book, and I’d like all of you guys to give it the okay, before we kinda, put it out in the world.’

‘That’s amazing, Bill.’ Stan says first. Mike smiles and Richie gets the idea that Mike has probably known about the book for a while. 

‘When do we get a copy?’ Beverly asks, eyes bright.

‘It’s Christmas in a few days, isn’t it?’ Bill says with a raised eyebrow.

‘We’re seriously getting books for Christmas?’ Richie complains, turning to Eddie for some sympathy. Eddie takes a sip of wine and looks in the opposite direction. At least Patty laughs, hiding her face behind her cup of water.

‘You could stand to read some.’ Bill says back, accompanied by a cheeky grin.

‘Let's hope this one has a decent ending, at least.’ Ben says, and it doesn’t even sound like a jab coming from Ben. God, he’s so fucking nice and handsome you can’t even be jealous. You just have to fall in love with him, don’t you?

When dinner wraps up, Beverly takes Richie by the hand for a smoke break. 

Stan’s neighbourhood is quiet. A large, suburban street loosely piled with houses that looked like they cost a small fortune. A surprising lack of Christmas decorations, Richie notices, more people opting for menorahs in the windows. The house directly across the street is sporting a sleek, silver model- kinda like the one Richie’s dad had had. Richie was supposed to inherit it actually, but Richie found out a month after the funeral that the will had been changed. 

‘I think that the last time I smoked was in Derry.’ Richie points out, taking the cigarette from Beverly’s offering hand. ‘When everything was done.’

Beverly pauses, looking out down the street. Richie watches her before following her gaze, where a huge, lone, inflatable Santa sit’s on the neighbour’s lawn. Richie starts thinking of a joke to make, but Beverly speaks before he can.

‘Are you doing okay, Richie?’ She asks, a familiar tone of worry in her voice. The same one he’d heard a few months back, a day before everything went off the rails. Getting fake-stalked. Having a nightmare. Waking up, living it out. ‘I’m- I’m so sorry. I should have done more, I should have been there for you-‘

‘It’s okay.’ Richie wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. He takes another drag on the cigarette before passing it back to her. That night feels far away at this point. Geez, that was November, right? Not that there hadn’t been 'episodes', per se, afterwards, but none to that extent.

‘No,’ She says in a little voice, shaking her head.

‘Beverly, I…’ Richie says. ‘I took your advice. I got a head doctor.’

She looks back to him. ‘You mean a therapist?’

‘Dr. Eugenia Katz. Psychiatrist, actually, it turns out there’s a difference?’

‘Is it helping?’

Richie nods, and he means it. Yeah, he still freaks out, like, a good amount, and there’s still so much constant shit going on in his head, but he knows what it is now, which helps. Post-traumatic stress disorder, which he felt unqualified for, generalized anxiety, which kinda felt tied in with the whole PTSD thing, low self-esteem, as he had been told, and probably a ton more things that couldn’t be properly sussed out against all the big-ticket items, and overall, a pretty fucked up head. Dr. Katz had nodded before speaking. _Fucked up, but not unfixable._

Beverly leans against Richie’s chest and Richie rests his chin on the top of her head. ‘I’m glad.’

Richie places a soft kiss to the top of her head. ‘You’re the first girl I ever thought I liked, you know?’

‘Thought?’ Beverly chuckles.

_Fuck._

‘Yeah, like, I thought I liked you? But it turns out I didn’t, I liked, ah, someone else, whatever, forget I said that.’

‘It’s okay,’ Beverly says. ‘I’ll love you no matter who you like.’

‘Really?’ Richie asks, and it comes out sounding so pathetic he wants to punch himself in the stomach. Beverly moves to embrace Richie in a full-on hug, wrapping her arms around him.

‘Really.’ She confirms.

‘Oh. Okay.’ It sounds like he had the wind completely knocked out of him, as if he had somehow succeeded in punching himself in the stomach. ‘Hey, Bev? What if I was, um, like, into, I don’t know, guys- or something? Not that I am, but-’

‘I’ll love you no matter who you love, Richie.’ Beverly says, pulling back and putting her hands on Richie’s shoulders.

’Thank you,’ Richie says, unable to get his voice louder than a strangled whisper. 

When they come back inside everybody has moved into the living room and snuggled up. Patty rests on Stan’s shoulder and Beverly moves to sit next to Ben, who gives her a soft kiss on the cheek before wrapping an arm around her. Bill and Mike’s slideshow of their adventures was ready to go on Stan’s flat screen, the only light in the room. Richie sits down next to the empty space next to Eddie, who makes a small sound of greeting.

‘Blanket me.’ Richie demands, and Eddie tosses half of the blanket over Richie without protest. ‘Are you too sleepy to fight me?’

‘More like your mom is too sleepy to fuck me.’ Eddie mumbles, leaning his head against Richie’s shoulder.

Richie decides to stay, very, very still.If you move, he’ll move. Be a statue, Rich.

The trash-mouth, however, does not stay still. ‘So, my mom fucks you? Never pegged you for getting pegged-‘

‘Richie, God, beep-beep, please.’ Stan says with wide eyes, putting his hand to his brow. 

‘Beep-beep?’ Patty asks with a giggle, a hand playing with one of his curls.

Stan leans into her ear and whispers the meaning as the slideshow starts, Bill and Mike standing at the front of the room in front of Stan’s flat-screen, pictures of them in front of various locations passing by, some trees, some cactuses, one of Bill and a jar of pickles, which didn’t make all that much sense to anybody but Mike and Bill.

‘That’s Area Fifty-One,’ Mike points out, a blurry photo of sand on screen. ‘Nothing about inter-dimensional space clowns, but it was okay. Actually, we did run into this field of grass, and that was something.’

‘A field of grass?’ Richie asks. ‘How is that anything?’

Mike’s face lights up. ‘Well, ever heard of a time-loop?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello... thank u for reading... :) 
> 
> big things to come... or not :O because there are two ways the next chapter can go and i haven't decided which way i want to go 
> 
> trying to figure out how to compare contrast the dynamic of richie always running away w/ eddie whos content to stay completely still, even to his detriment idk man i love eddie that funky guy  
> what else are some thoughts... 
> 
> idk i love eddie and i love that lil bit of Richie's backstorys because thats like my constant hc that he just fucked off to LA and lived off cheques from his parents until they caught him and got real pissed 
> 
> ok i think thats all i got to say about this chapter sorry if these are annoying i just like to write down my thinkings for when i look back on these 
> 
> but anyways thank u for reading and i hope if you are celebrating any holidays they are very happy :) <3


	10. The Holidays (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: nsfw content, internalized homophobia + homophobic language, mentions of past abuse

‘I still don’t get the thing about time-loops- how does a rock control time?’ Richie says through a mouth of spit. Eddie eyes Richie in the mirror, both of them brushing their teeth. Richie elbows Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie steps back before slapping at Richie’s head and landing a smack on the back of his head, Richie whaps him back before Eddie shoves him again, and Richie’s hip bumps against the counter. ‘Ow!’ 

Eddie starts laughing and the foam catches in his throat. He hacks it out into the sink. Richie reaches out and pinches Eddie’s cheek, who immediately swats his hand away with a scowl. 

‘Knock it off, dick-head.’ Eddie growls, before laughing. 

Which makes Richie laugh, and he offers Eddie a spit-foam smile, teeth bared, which Eddie returns sans-minty foam. Richie snickers before spitting into the sink. Eddie watches as he turns on the tap and cups some water in his hands, drinking, then swishing, then spitting again with a ‘pitooey’. 

‘You have nice teeth, dude,’ Eddie admits. 

Richie looks up from the sink and catches Eddie’s eye in the mirror. ‘Really?’ 

‘Yeah, really.’ Eddie says. He thinks that maybe Richie is blushing. 

‘Fuck off.’ Richie says. He spits again. 

‘I’m serious! Remember, fuck, who was it, Amanda Kernie- Kearny? Right? She told me, to tell you-- she had a crush on you in tenth grade.’ Eddie says. Richie gives a sheepish grin, looking down at the sink. ‘She said you had a great smile.’ 

‘I don’t remember that,’ Richie mumbles. 

Amanda Kearny, out-fielder for the girl’s softball team and yearbook club secretary, had followed Eddie to his locker after class and asked as she chewed her grape smelling gum: ‘You and Rich Tozier are best friends, right?’ 

‘Yeah, we are,’ Eddie had said with a good amount of pride. He had the scar to prove it, mauled into his palm. 

‘Can you let him know that I have a crush on him?’ Amanda said, popping a purple bubble with a toothy smile. Her long copper hair was gathered up into a pony-tail, and she stands an inch taller than Eddie. Eddie frowns. ‘I think we’d be cute together, but he has to ask me out.’ She looks back to her group of friends, standing a few meters behind her, a gaggle of bright colours and everything feminine. Of course Richie would like her- she was a cute, kinda popular girl. ‘He’s just- he’s really nice to me in Geography, and his voices are kinda dorky, but like, he’s still funny, and, like, when he smiles, geez- it’s like the world just brightens, y’know?’ 

Eddie nods because he does know. ‘I’ll let him know.’ 

Amanda let out a small squeal, pressing a quick kiss to Eddie’s cheek before darting back to her group of friends. She relayed the news and they burst into giggles and whispers. Eddie remembers going home, annoyed. More than annoyed. He had a death grip on his back-pack straps the entire way home, past the Library, past the Barrens, and through the front door of the home he couldn’t stand. Every-time the dismissal bell rung, he’d contemplate going to the train tracks and hopping on whichever one was heading out of Derry. He could become a vagabond, riding the rails and get one of those little white and red polka-dotted sacks and a stick to sling over his shoulder- the only thing in it, his aspirator. Maybe a comic book. Eddie would usually laugh to himself over that image, but with each creeping day, the closer he got to eighteen, he knew that it could be a possibility. He could get out of Derry, he would take his friends with him, and he would be happy. 

_Eddie, don’t slam the door!_

‘Sorry, Ma.’ Eddie pinches out before hurrying down the hall and into his room, the door slamming behind him again, a total mistake. 

_EDDIE!_

‘SORRY!’ He roars back. 

Eddie’s eyes widen, realizing he had just yelled at his mother, and braces himself for impact. Yelling wasn’t allowed- not because it would put a strain on him, or damage his poor, sick, little body, but because that was _yelling,_ and the last time he had yelled, something awful had happened. He couldn’t remember what it was, but it had been after- or maybe during- all that business with It. 

_You do not raise your voice to your mother,_ Sonia would say with such sheer dread in her voice that Eddie wouldn’t even be able to choke out a response. _You respect me. I raised you, Eddie, and I love you, and nobody else loves you the way I do._

The T.V. doesn’t zap off. Her footsteps don’t move down the hallway and Eddie’s legs make him start pacing from his bookshelf to his bed. His bookbag drops to the floor. Everybody has strict parents, right? Richie’s parents have him home at ten every night. Mike has to do chores every weekend. Ben’s mom, before Ben had moved away, had grounded him for getting a C in Spanish. Everybody has strict parents, Eddie confirms as he takes a deep drag from his aspirator, the spray working its way down his throat and letting him breathe again. 

‘I guess I forgot.’ Eddie shrugs, putting his toothbrush back into its sanitized protective case. Richie takes his toothbrush and puts it into the pocket of his sweatpants. 

‘All good, bud,’ Richie says, before grinning like a fox. ‘I only had eyes for your mom- the way she always had her hair curler things in, all the time? It was _beyond_ hot.’ 

‘Funny.’ Eddie mumbles as they leave the washroom, flicking the light switch off behind them. 

The hallway is quiet as they walk up to their room. Little rectangles of light peer out from under the doors, Beverly and Ben still on Venice time and Eddie can hear Stan and Patty talking in low voices, unable to make out any of the words fully. Richie looks back at Eddie and gives a small wave. Eddie waves back, walking to catch up to Richie. Richie takes his forearm and navigates them through the dark hall without a word. 

That late-late afternoon cat-nap had fucked up his circadian rhythm, Eddie decides as he lay awake. Eddie finds his eyes on Richie’s phone screen, where he’s scrolling through his Facebook feed. He does one of those nose-exhale laughs at a video of a kitten cuddling a puppy, pokes at his screen, then keeps going. It’s adorable- not the kitten and the puppy, but Richie- which isn’t fair. Eddie looks back up to the ceiling, letting out a sigh. He turns over to his side, which is even more uncomfortable than his back, so he turns back onto his back, which feels like he’s laying on spikes, so he tries his other side, where he finds Richie watching him with a bemused expression. 

‘Can’t sleep?’ Richie asks with a smile, voice hushed. 

‘Were your parents hard on you?’ Eddie asks. 

Richie shakes his head no, then thinks for a second before speaking. ‘Way too easy, until it didn’t matter anymore.’ 

‘I thought they were strict,’ Eddie mumbles. ‘You always complained.’ 

‘Yeah, cause’ I was a shitty, spoilt teenager,’ Richie says. ‘Turns out, they were right about, like, ninety percent of things.’ 

Eddie looks away from Richie, back up to the ceiling. Had Eddie been a shitty kid? He’d been a shitty friend, he’d been a shitty husband. He’d practically driven his mom insane with all his medical issues, and that’s no easy task for a single mother. Eddie knows now that yeah, the illnesses weren’t, like, real _real,_ but they had to be at some point, right? The medical bills had been real- a chunky manilla folder that sat on the kitchen table reminded him every time he went to get a glass of water or whenever he got the guts to ask for a new toy at Freese’s. 

‘Hey, Eds, that just me though, okay?’ Richie says, as if he had read Eddie’s mind, and tilts towards Eddie, blankets rustling. ‘They were just looking out for me.’ 

‘So was my mom.’ Eddie says, and Richie’s face falls. 

‘Eddie, dude…’ Richie says with a weird sense of pity in his voice. ‘You know that’s… that’s not…’ 

Eddie looks to Richie, who’s struggling to find the words. 

‘Your mom was not… good.’ Richie finally says, and Eddie wishes that he hadn’t. 

‘You know that, right?’ Richie asks, and he sounds scared. Like, actually scared. Which Eddie can’t stand. 

‘I’m going to sleep now,’ Eddie announces, turning onto his side and away from Richie. Eddie hears Richie put his phone down on the floor and then rustle around, side to side until he stills. Then he rustles again. Then stills. Then more rustling. Then he’s still again. Then Eddie hears Richie inhale as if he was about to speak (a sound Eddie is very well acquainted with, seeing as he makes it about a trillion times a day), but no sound comes. 

  
  


When Eddie wakes up the next morning, Richie is gone. 

Eddie grabs his phone, checks that the battery is fully charged, and then looks for any notifications. All of his friends are under the same roof, so there’s not the usual few messages, but one: 

**Stan Uris to The Losers Club**

Patty, Richie and I went to get bagels… Back by ten… 

Eddie can hear people moving through the house. A wave of laughter echoes up through the floorboards. Eddie thinks that if he puts that pillow over his head he’ll suffocate and won’t have to get up, ever, and he could just go back to sleep. In the shower, he thinks that if he just took a big enough gulp of water and held his breath, he would drown. In the living room, where the Beverly, Ben, and Mike mill about, he realizes that he was being dramatic and just got a very shitty night of sleep. 

‘Hey Eddie,’ Mike says, cradling a thermos and sitting in the lone arm-chair. Eddie nods and sits down on the couch, his body being enveloped by the creamy leather. 

‘Good morning,’ Eddie says, attempting a sing-song voice that cracks as it works it’s way out of rest. ‘How’d you all sleep?’ 

‘Like a rock,’ Beverly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks to Ben. Ben shrugs and looks to Mike. 

‘Fine enough.’ Mike says. 

A calm pause follows as the ease of morning sets in. Maybe ten minutes pass without anyone speaking, the four of them all off in their own heads, before Ben pipes up. 

‘I love you all.’ He says, so simply. They all agree. 

Eddie, for the briefest second, thinks that all his friends are introverts. Then the front door slams open, and Richie is shouting: ‘Guess who found suhganyut!’ 

Stan, not shouting, corrects him. ‘Sufganiyot.’ 

‘Donuts!’ Richie shouts again. Eddie can hear Stan roll his eyes and does the same. 

‘You said you’re half Jewish?’ Patty questions, a laugh in her voice. 

Stan says something in Hebrew and Patty giggles. Richie lets out an offended gasp. 

The Losers (plus Patty, an honorary member) migrate into the kitchen. Bill makes his way down from the shower, hair still wet as he reaches for a bagel. Stan pokes at his phone for a few seconds before his sound system comes to life and Beverly comes to his side as the two try to select what music to play, the same way they had fussed over tapes in the clubhouse. Eddie smiles before a certain half-Jewish someone pops up by his side. 

‘Want one?’ Richie asks, holding out a powdered sugar mess. ‘And no, there are no nuts, so you’re fine- it’s insensitive to my people if you don’t take one, so you have too- also, I hope you’re not mad at me, but it looks like you’re mad at me, but this is a peace offering.’ 

‘Who said I was mad at you?’ Eddie snaps. 

‘Wait- are you not mad?’ Richie asks, loud, as always, and catches Ben’s attention from the crowd of conversations overlapping. 

Before Eddie can respond that’s he’s not _not_ mad, Ben asks, looking as if he might cry. ‘You two are fighting?’

’No, dude, he’s just-‘ Richie starts. 

‘He said something bad about my mom,’ Eddie says, ignoring Richie’s attempts at defending himself, sure he has a ‘your mom’ joke at the tip of his tongue.

‘He always does.’ Ben says, confused, looking to Richie, still holding the jelly donut in his palm. 

Eddie frowns. ‘Not like that.’ 

‘Do you want to go for a run after breakfast?’ Ben asks to Eddie. 

‘Am I invited?’ Richie asks. Ben shakes his head no, giving Richie a sad smile. 

As if Richie could even keep up with them-,high school and college track star Ben Hanscom, and retired asthmatic turned fitness buff, Eddie Kaspbrak, outfitted in their best athletic wear for the chilled Texan weather, as they take to the streets of Stan’s suburb. Cherry Lane turns into Apricot Way and Eddie, who jerks off to gay porn and thinks of his room-mate in the shower, thinks those names are the gayest thing he has ever seen. Ben doesn’t laugh when Eddie says that (sans the masturbation stuff). 

‘It’s almost 2017, dude,’ Ben points out, clouds of mist coming out when he speaks. Eddie remembers Ben’s uncle had a boyfriend. ‘You shouldn’t use gay in that way.’ 

‘Right, my bad,’ Eddie says, turning onto Chestnut Street. 'Sorry.'

As if Ben had been reminded about Richie by that conversation he looks to Eddie. ’So, you’re mad at Richie?’ 

Through a panting breath and over the sound of trotting sneakers, Eddie explains: ‘He fuckin’- he called my mom, ‘not good’- and not in like, the sex joke way. Like, she was a bad person or something-’ 

‘Eddie,’ Ben breathes as they work their way through Stan’s neighbourhood. ‘You remember how she treated you, right?’ 

‘Yeah! But she was my mom- she loved me, man!’ Eddie says back, making sure the balls of his feet were hitting the pavement the right way. 

‘I’m sure Beverly’s dad thought he loved her,’ Ben says.

Eddie remembers Alvin Marsh. When he had been a kid he’d been scared shitless of Bev’s dad. He wore plaid shirts and workbooks and smelt so much like cigarette smoke that Eddie would have to take to his aspirator whenever Eddie and his mother would come near him at the supermarket. Alvin would look down at Eddie, in his pink train shirt, and sneer. Eddie was less scared as a teenager, the guy lurking around town with a cracked skull. Eddie remembers seeing him outside Beverly’s old apartment, smoking and staring at nothing. Everyone whispered that he wasn’t right in the head anymore, ever since his daughter attacked him then ran off with a twenty-two-year-old boyfriend, the little harlot. All lies. 

‘He hit her,’ Eddie says, feeling his chest grow tight. Eddie remembers seeing Beverly across the classroom in arithmetic before they had been friends, a gnarly green bruise trailing up her collarbone. Eddie wondered what it felt like. He had wanted to offer her a band-aid (band-aids always made him feel better) or maybe one of the kiddie aspirins his mother had packed for him because that mark looked like it was still pulsing. 

‘You don’t have to hit someone to hurt them.’ Ben pulls to a complete stop. Eddie slows, then turns to face him. 

‘Yeah, and my mom never _really_ hit me, so I don’t know why you all think she’s bad, or something,’ Eddie explains. Eddie bounces on his heels, not wanting to let his body cool down and also really wanting to leave this conversation. ‘She was just my mom, man.’ 

‘Do you seriously not see it?’ Ben says with a voice so sad it puts a crack in Eddie’s heart.

Eddie looks away, towards the ever-expanding suburb. ‘She loved me.’ 

Ben doesn’t say anything, but Eddie can feel his eyes on him. 

’She was- she was protecting me,’ Eddie tries to justify, but Ben just keeps looking at him with that sad fucking face. ‘Do you all think I was abused, or something? What the fuck? Dude, she was my mother- she was looking out for me, protecting me- for a good fucking reason, given what the _fuck_ was happening in Derry, and you’re looking at me like I’m stupid, man, and I’m not stupid- I was there with her, everyday, until she died. I- I would know if she was fucking abusive!’ 

‘I never said she was abusive.’ Ben points out, forcing Eddie to realize he had put the words there- as if that was some sort of admittance. Eddie scoffs. A car rolls up behind them and the two of them step closer to the curb as it passes by. They watch it go before looking back to each-other. ‘Whenever my mom hosted book club, I’d be in the kitchen for my after-school snack, and I’d hear stuff,’ Ben says. ‘They would gossip, and talk about the town, and sometimes you would come up.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You and your mother. They’d talk about how sick you were, or had been. You told me about your influenza, right, from when you were four? And they said that your mom scammed the hospital.’ For a second, it seems like Ben would stop this nasty fucking story, but he keeps going, sounding pained. ‘And they’d go oh, that poor boy, and his crazy mother, making him think he’s ill-‘ 

‘Stop, Ben.' 

‘-and nobody did anything, ever. They would stand to the side, and let her- let her torture you, the same way they let Alvin hurt Beverly, even though she’d show up with bruises, and-‘ Ben takes a deep breath, steadying himself. ‘Then Beverly got away, but you didn’t, and you had to stay there with someone who was supposed to love you, and take care of you, hurting you-‘ 

‘What happened to Beverly, and what happened to me- it’s not the same.’ Eddie says, trying his hardest to keep composed even though a hot ball of anger, shame, and fear was growing at a rapid pace. Eddie’s not sure what would happen if that ball were to explode. ‘It is not the same.’ 

‘I’m not trying to say it was, but what your mother did to you wasn’t _good_ either.’ Ben responds. 

Eddie runs through all the possibilities- he could punch Ben, which might make him shut up. Land a solid blow right on his perfect nose, then he would stop talking about his mother. Or, Eddie could scream. He’d scream really, really loud and scare all of Stan’s birds away from the bird-feeder, but he’d feel better after the sound came out. A scream seems real good right about now, Eddie decides, moving that to be the first option, until he remembers that they’re in a quiet suburb and Eddie has manners. Back to the second option. Punch Ben. Make him stop talking. Make him stop lying, but then Eddie knows, more specifically, the kid who forgot knows, that he may be right and that kid is screaming so _fucking_ loud that Eddie is getting a headache. _You're still trapped by her, you stupid mother-fucker! You're an old-ass man! I told her to fuck off when I was thirteen, you coward! DO SOMETHING!_

Eddie sighs. ‘It’s fuckin’ Christmas, man. Can we just- can we just finish the run?’ 

Ben obliges, starting to jog again. Eddie follows after him, the two of them easily keeping the same pace as McMansions pass by. They don’t talk until three streets later when Ben shyly asks Eddie what he got him for a present, which makes Eddie laugh so hard he has to stop running. 

When Eddie and Ben walk back up the house, past the menorah in the window, Eddie can see Richie in the kitchen, arms wrapped around his elbows. The sufganiyot sit on a plate and Richie is staring at them with a sad little look on his face as Stan, Mike and Patty move around him kicking off the holiday dinner prep. Ben comes to a stop and Eddie stalls beside him, Ben placing his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. 

‘Yeah?’ Eddie asks. 

‘Nothin’,’ Ben says. ‘I’m just glad we’re all together.’ 

When the door opens, the sound of Bill and Beverly singing screeches out to the foyer. If Eddie’s ears weren’t failing him, and they weren't because he knew that he had perfect hearing (for sure, he last check-up was a few days ago, and nothing had changed) that was an attempt at Jingle Bells. Richie looks up from his spot in the kitchen. 

‘Oh, hey- wow, you guys are sweaty!’ Richie remarks as soon as he reaches the foyer. Ben wipes at his forehead then looks at his hand and nods. 

‘You have sugar on your nose,’ Ben points out, moving into the house and leaving the two of them alone in the foyer. Eddie can hear Beverly let out a squeal from the living room, sure that she was wrapping a sweaty Ben up in her arms. Bill’s laugh booms before another carol start, Ben shyly joining in. Richie stands in front of Eddie, arms at his sides, looking like he didn’t even know how to stand. He does have sugar on his nose. 

‘I’m not mad at you.’ Eddie says. He wasn’t sure if he was ever mad in the first place. 

‘If you want me to, I will never make another your mom joke again in my life.’ Richie says, crossing his heart. ‘I swear it.’ 

‘And deprive the world of your wit? You can’t put that weight on my shoulders.’ 

‘So, are we good or do we have to go Wal-Mart and buy an air-mattress?’ Richie asks, leaning against Stan’s credenza. 

‘We’re good, I think,’ Eddie says. Richie lets out a sharp nervous laugh, bursting one of Eddie’s eardrums. 

‘Awesome! Cause’ when you’re mad at me, I kinda like, shit my pants- it’s not cute,’ Richie says, voice quick. 

‘You still have sugar on your nose.’ Eddie states. Richie brushes at his schnoz with his sleeve, but the powder doesn’t move. 

‘I’ve had, ah, about six doughnuts, but I got them for a-you to try, eh?’ Richie explains half-way into a mediocre Scarface impression, words moving slower and slower as Eddie moves his hand up to his face and brushing away the powdered sugar. Richie goes cross-eyed watching Eddie’s hand move up to his face, then his eyes go back to normal behind his frames as Eddie takes his hand back. Richie switches back into his own voice, genuine. ‘They were my dad’s favourite thing every Hanukkah. Apart from, y’know, family, and really sticking it to all the anti-semites in Derry. And playing dreidel. But mostly the food- ever had latkes? Patty and I are gonna make some.’ 

The instinct in Eddie tells him to ask what’s inside Latkes, or the doughnuts, because if he eats a cashew he could realistically die, and you know you’re allergic to soy, but that kid with the broken arm is kicking at his frontal lobe and telling him to _shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! IT’S FUCKING FAKE, MOTHER-FUCKER! YOU KNOW THAT! LISTEN TO ME!_

‘Can I try them?’ Eddie asks. The little kid with the broken glasses and shitty voice nods. 

  
  


When the days starts to come to a close, the Losers gather in the living room to exchange presents before everyone heads out tomorrow, back to being spread out all over the globe. Richie and Eddie sit so close together their shoulders touch, Eddie eating one of Richie’s pastries. Bill hands them all the same rectangle shape, wrapped in green and red polka-dotted paper. Richie rips his open immediately, revealing a glossy cover featuring a lone red-balloon- _where are the other ninety-eight when you need them_? Bill motions for him to open the book, and there’s a neat little inscription: 

  
  


For the Losers

  
  
  


And yeah, they all get a little misty-eyed. Until Stan flips open to his chapter. ‘What the fuck, Bill, I kill myself?’ 

‘Wait,’ Eddie says, flipping to the last few pages. ‘I die?’ 

Richie feels his heart rate jump and his stomach does a sloppy back-flip, but then Eddie is laughing and things are okay. Beverly places a hand on his shoulder, which helps. Dead-light buddies, Richie figures, placing his hand on top of hers. 

‘You dumb motherfucker, you fucking suck at endings!’ Eddie shouts. Stan booes alongside Eddie and Richie swears that for just a second, he can see the two of them as kids, without the scars that trace the outline of Stan’s face, left there by the woman with the flute, or the stab wound ground into Eddie’s cheek from what had happened in the Townhouse bathroom. There aren’t any approaching grey hairs, there aren’t any wrinkles on their foreheads or ‘smile lines’, as Richie’s mother had called them, tracing their cheeks. When Richie looks to Bill, who’s hiding his face in his hands, he’s just Big Bill. 

‘So- do you want me to sign it or not?’ Bill says, and Mike busts out laughing. 

When all the gifts are done being exchanged, Richie is one corny t-shirt, a bow-tie, two pairs of socks, and one book richer. Everybody trickles away, Stan and Patty going to clean up, Beverly offers to help and goes with them. Eddie takes Bill outside to yell at him over every detail he got wrong, even though he’d only maybe read five pages- the first two of his chapter - _Myra and I fuckin’ hated Barry Manilow, what the fuck, Bill-_ and the random pages near the end he had flipped to, and Mike and Ben decide to go explore the huge bookshelf in Stan’s office, chock full of dorky shit Richie didn’t think about for more than two seconds. Richie, who isn’t cool by any means, is still cool around this buncha’ geeks. Geeks who he loves more than anything. 

So he winds up alone, with his small, but meaningful, pile of presents- which are kind hints for him to get new socks or at least a few pairs that weren’t mismatched or full of holes. 

His thumbs brushes over the thick book, much thicker than all of Richie’s shows transcribed and stapled together by an overworked PA, and opens to a page where Ben, Bill and Eddie were in the Barrens, fucking around in the water. Building a dam, Richie remembers. Makes sense with Bill being the architect now, book Ben gently instructing the others what to do. He had heard the story but he hadn’t been there until later in the day, and it’s almost word for word the way Bill had told it to him so many years ago. It’s in Eddie’s voice, talking about his mother, taking his shoes off, and getting in the water to build the dam. Richie whispers the words out-loud to himself, a habit he hadn’t realized he had until Eddie pointed it out in the shared office. 

_‘Let’s guh-guh-go- I’ll d-dig em’, and yuh-you sh-show me where to puh-put em’ ih-in, Big Ben,’_ Bill, as done by Richie, says, which Richie chuckles at softly- it sounds just like him. _Not too shabby, Tuh-Tuh-Tuh-Tozier_ . Richie’s eyes move to the next line, which isn’t ascribed to anyone until book Eddie points him out- book Richie Tozier and book Stanley Uris. Book Richie immediately pinches book Eddie’s cheek, the same way he had always done. In Richie’s best Eddie voice, which he still thinks is pretty accurate: _‘Don’t do that! I hate it when you do that, Richie!’_

In a voice that’s wholly his, no affectation or artifice, Richie whispers the next line. 

‘Ah, you love it, Eds.’ 

‘What do I love?’ 

Richie turns to see Eddie behind him, taking his jacket off and slinging it over his arm. Richie mentally pats himself on the shoulder for not jumping out of his skin. 

‘Women twice your size.’ Richie says, cool as a cucumber. Eddie laughs lightly, rolling his eyes. ‘How was your ‘talk’ with Ben?’ 

‘He said it’s too late to change any of the details, including the fact I died- and died a virgin, which I’m not, by the way, and the weird orgy. Did you get to that part yet?’ 

Richie shakes his head no. The thing was like a gazillion pages. Sure, Richie was a fast reader, but a man can only do so much. 

‘Yeah, so, spoiler alert- we all have sex with Bev so we can become _big_ , _strong_ , _men_ and go defeat the clown.’ Eddie says, as blasé as possible. He thumps his chest on the big, strong, men bit. 

‘Was Bill on drugs?’ Richie snorts. 

‘He wasn’t high- it’s a metaphor, he said.’ 

‘How pretentious of him.’ Richie concludes, turning his nose up. Eddie snorts, which makes Richie snort, and then they’re both laughing. 

When Eddie starts walking down the hall, announcing that it’s time for bed, Richie grabs his gifts into his arms and chases after him. As soon as Eddie can, he abruptly stops which forces Richie to bump into his back, which makes Eddie cackle before walking again. 

‘Fuck you!’ Richie curses, careful that he’s not yelling. He didn’t want to wake anyone up. 

’No- fuck _you_ !’ Eddie says back, laughing around the words, and not watching his volume one bit. _Cute._

_Cute, cute, cute,_ runs through Richie’s head as Eddie searches through his suitcases- all four of them- to find his pyjamas, spilling half his things onto the floor before realizing and packing them back up with an annoyed look on his face, that dark furrowed brow. Eddie goes to change in the washroom, the same way Richie had done and comes back in one of his sleep tech shirts, or whatever- one of the ones that do something with the sweat or something and keeps you cool, but it really just looks like a plain, white t-shirt. _Cute._ Richie pretends to look at his phone as he watches Eddie do his night-time stretches, then move into his bed-time meditation, sitting at the foot of their mattress with his back straight as a rod. _Cute, cute, cute._

‘You look happy,’ Eddie says as they lay in bed, facing each other on their sides. 

‘I am.’ Richie responds. 

‘Why?’ Eddie asks. Guys shouldn’t have eyelashes that long, Richie decides, watching the way Eddie’s eyelashes hit the top of his cheeks when he blinks. _Cute._

Richie has to think before settling on an answer. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t be okay with sharing a bed with me.’ 

‘Did you forget to shower?’ 

‘What- no, fuck you, I’m an _adult_ \- don’t laugh!’ Richie protests, but Eddie keeps giggling. _Fuckin’ cute._

‘I’m supposed to laugh! You’re a comedian!’ Eddie says, flopping onto his back. Richie scoots closer to Eddie to make up for the lost room. 

‘Let me tell you a different joke.’ 

‘Fine.’ Eddie obliges, turning back on his side to meet Richie, and they’re suddenly a lot closer than Richie remembered. 

Richie inhales, but he had been practicing this joke his entire life- he knew it like the back of his own hand, inside and out. The joke of his life, really, that nobody ever laughed at. Eddie might, though. ‘What did the closeted comedian say to his best friend?’ 

Eddie looks to Richie. ‘I don’t know, what?’ 

‘I’m in love with you.’ 

It takes Eddie a second to respond before he scoffs. ‘That’s not even fucking funny, dude.’ 

‘Yeah, cause’ it’s not actually a joke?’ Richie throws a hand over his eyes, unable to watch the car wreck unfolding. _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck, with all capital letters! FUCK._

‘What?’ Eddie sputters. 

‘Yeah, seriously, man.’ Richie groans, because he gave himself away. _Ding-ding-ding! Step right on up and I’ll guess who fucked up- you! You fucked up! You fucked it up!_

‘Really? Like, _love_ love?’ 

‘Yes, really. _Love_ love.’ _And the winner of the award for Biggest Fuck Up of All Time, for royally messing one of the few good relationships he had left by telling his best friend he was in love with him, Richie W. Tozier! The crowd goes wild!_

Eddie’s voice softens. ‘You’re not fucking with me?’ 

‘What- why would I be fucking with you?’ Richie asks, taking his hand from his eyes and giving Eddie a confused look. 

‘You always fuck with me, it’s what we do.’ 

If Eddie doesn’t get this now, Richie thinks he’ll probably have another heart-attack, so before he loses all his courage, Richie lets the question fall. ‘Can I kiss you?’ 

The surprised look that had been there since the start of the conversation doesn’t leave Eddie’s eyes, but he nods. 

‘Okay- I’m gonna do that now, okay?’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Eddie breathes. 

‘Okay,’ Richie agrees, before leaning in, and it’s slow because they both know that this is something they can’t come back from if anything goes wrong- but, fuck, is it so worth it as their lips press against each other, barely more than a peck- but so, so soft. Eddie, the one with balls, makes it more than that, pressing his lips against Richie’s with a polite zeal. Which isn’t how Richie would describe any kiss he’d ever gotten before, but this wasn’t like any kiss he’d gotten before. 

Eddie pulls away, and Richie thinks he might get up and leave- and hey, just for good measure, spit on his filthy faggot face before he goes.

Eddie doesn’t do that- he props himself onto his elbows and kisses Richie again, and it’s a reminder that everything has been worth it. All the shit, all the scrapes, all the scars. He finds Eddie’s hand somewhere beneath the bedsheets and holds it so tight it hurts. Eddie’s spare hand moves to the back of his neck, plying their lips together like pouring honey, warm and sugary- with a hint of mint, from outside of the metaphor, the literal taste of mint from the reality of them having brushed their teeth just a few minutes ago, but hey, that could be hours away now, for all Richie cared. What, you want a metaphor now? Thinking about brushing your teeth isn’t romantic? 

Fine. Here are a few: it’s the way Pangea crumbled, sending the continents their different ways until they crash back into each other, after a million years of waiting, only able to stare at each other across the ocean. It’s the way the sun rises, staring out at the moon, every single day until gravity forgets to hold them in place and sends them hurling into each other, explosions on impact. It’s the way flowers grow, slow, slow, stems peeking out of the ground, before the flower blooms all in an instant, sending bright petals bursting out into the new brave world. 

Brave world. Brave Eddie. Brave Richie, maybe. 

Eddie’s hips find his, stay brave. It’s honey on sugar, or possibly Eddie’s erection on Richie’s through their pyjama pants, or it’s the way Europe collides back into North America after a gazillion years apart- and North America lets out a fucking _whimper_ that goes straight to Europe’s cock, all the parts fitting together as they grind back into one whole piece of Earth- or it’s the way the sun presses up into the moon, asking for something the moon wants to give so fuckin’ badly, the heat of the sun making delirious friction against the moon’s craters, or it’s the way the flower cums way too early. 

The Moon has to stifle a yelp, lifting his hand and biting down on his knuckles, and trying to keep himself held up as his body spasms. Yeah, the Moon definitely came, the Moon thinks (as soon as he can think again), looking down at the wet spot on his pants. Fuck.

The Sun doesn’t look mad. The Sun looks blissful, with this rose glow in his cheeks, the Moon knows he’s the most handsome man on Earth. Or the solar system, if they were gonna make this metaphor make sense or the universe- or, actually, fuck the metaphors? How the fuck does Bill do this? 

‘Sorry, man,’ Richie apologizes, wheezing slightly as he rolls off of Eddie, lying next to him. 

Eddie stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide and lips parted. ‘I feel like we should high-five. Can we high-five?’ 

‘Yeah- yeah, we can high-five. Of course we can high-five.’ Richie sticks his free hand up in the air, the other one still attached to Eddie’s, who uses his own free hand to meet Richie’s with a loud clap. Their hands stay there, a spectacle in mid-air, before Eddie intertwines their fingers, collapsing their hands back onto the bed, landing in-between them. 

‘Are you still…?’ Richie begins to ask, before his words decide to short-circuit at the thought of… 

‘You should go change your pants and then I’m gonna go to the bathroom, I think.’ 

‘You can’t pee with a boner- oh, right, to jerk-’ 

‘Go change, please?’ Eddie says with a tight voice.

‘Right, right, got it!’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading again :) 
> 
> happy holidays my guys 
> 
> i deadass started crying when i had to write the bit where ben was trying to convince eddie because i really think he knows that what happened wasn't good but thats his mom, dude, and eddie is nothing if not fiercely loyal - 
> 
> oh yeah! they smooched! yay! finally!
> 
> RICHIE TOZIER DOES NOT FUCK. YOU CANNOT CHANGE MY MIND. 
> 
> what else 
> 
> this was my love/hate letter to stephen king 
> 
> i honestly wanted to like wait a few days so i could edit w. a fresh mind on this but i also wanted to have it up before new years so its here now, im not mad at it i mean i've had the kiss bit done for two weeks or so now 
> 
> idk i'm sleepy but thank u once again for reading!!! love u all! hope if u are on break or having some holidays they are good and warm and if not on any holidays or anything hope you are just doing well :)


	11. How to Hold Out for a Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: misogyny, internalized homophobia, mentions of past abuse

Richie had said that each of the Losers had their own superpowers, like the Justice League. 

Beverly could tell what anybody was thinking with one look. Wonder-Woman. 

Bill knew how to create. Green Lantern. 

Mike knew how to get everybody together and looked great in a cape. Batman.

Ben could listen and really make you feel heard. Aquaman, Richie laughed, because, like, Aquaman listens to the fishes. 

Stan was The Martian, because duh. Eddie didn’t get the reference, more of a Thunder-Cats guy, but Richie kept going. 

Eddie’s power was bravery, he said. You’re Superman. 

‘Who are you?’ Eddie asked, his ankle against Richie’s leg in the hammock. It was just the two of them there that day, stuffing their faces with snacks and shooting the shit. Maybe they were twelve, maybe fourteen. Eddie wasn’t too sure. Some things were still foggy, not even the Derry fog, but just the result of age. But the next bit is crystal: 

‘I don’t have a power.’ Richie answers with a shrug. 

Eddie, however many years later, sitting across from him in a diner in the East Village, realizes Richie’s power was charm. He’s charming. The waitress is chatting with him and he’s asking her about her kids. 

‘That one is Rose,’ She- Lucy, as Richie had noticed- says as she points to a photo in her wallet. ‘That’s Orchid.’ 

‘Neat names,’ Richie says, leaning to look at them. Eddie knows that he would have said the same thing, but laced with snark. Richie doesn’t. He’s kind and he cares. It’s not the same kind of care that Bev or Ben has. Maybe it’s more lighthearted, maybe it’s gentler. He always knows the right thing to do, the right thing to say. ‘I’m guessing you like nature.’ 

‘My husband, actually, is a florist,’ Lucy says. 

Eddie looks at his phone as Lucy talks about how they got married at the New York Botanical Gardens. It’s one now, so if they can hurry this brunch up they can hit up Trader Joes before three, and then be back at the apartment for four. It was laundry day, too, and they had used too many towels this week. Eddie looks to Richie, whose still chatting with the waitress. 

‘That’s really sweet, holy crap,’ Richie says. ‘No, I haven’t been yet…’ 

The view from the window is boring, just concrete and cars zipping by and throwing up chunky, grey slush. The window is fucking disgusting, coated in the shit. 

_‘…They have these new exhibits every month- we always go for date night, Amir and me… Especially when everything is in bloom- oh, you’d love it…’_

Eddie starts tapping the corner of his phone against the table in a staccato pattern, and he swears that his phone case sticks to the left-over syrup that has coated the tabletop.

‘We should go, Eddie,’ Richie says. Eddie looks up, Richie beaming. Lucy nods in agreement, a warm smile painted on her face. God, she must really want those tips, huh?

‘Yeah, right- when do we have the time?’ Eddie gruffs, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip. Under the table, his leg bounces. 

‘Excuse him, he’s a hard-ass, unmoved by tales of love,’ Richie drolls. Lucy holds back a giggle. ‘Plus, he thinks he’s allergic to pollen, but he also thinks he’s allergic to Benadryl, which is the real cruelty of it all-‘ 

‘Richie, dude-‘ 

‘Right, sorry. He’ll be happier after he finishes his egg whites, Luce.’ 

Eddie kicks Richie’s leg and sends him an annoyed look. The waitress thankfully gets it and goes to serve another table, her eyebrows raised as she walks away. 

‘What, Spaghetti?’ Richie asks. 

‘If you could not tell my life story to a stranger, that’d be great, thanks- and don’t call me that, because it’s not my name, and I hate when you call me that.’ 

Richie grins. ‘Christian names from here on out, Edward.’ 

‘Fuck you, Richard.’ Eddie says with a smile. 

Richie darts his eyes around the diner before offering his retort in a low, quiet voice. ‘You wouldn’t even be able to handle me in the sack, _Edward_.’

‘Yeah I could,’ Eddie says, much too quickly. To compensate for the blush creeping over his cheeks, he adds, ‘You came in like two seconds!’ 

Richie’s face drops.

‘What?’ Eddie asks. 

‘Don’t be so loud.’ He says. It’s not even a question. Richie looks over his shoulder, left then right. It doesn’t look like he finds anything, but his jaw stays clenched. 

Eddie, baffled, tries to spit out an answer, but then Richie is waving Lucy over to ask for the check. Lucy comes over, still smiling at her new favourite customer. Richie whips out his wallet and slams down a fifty even though lunch was only about thirty bucks, kisses on her on the cheek, and heads for the door before Eddie can even call, ’Hey, wait up!’ 

Richie’s tall-ass moves down the street, throwing a baseball cap onto his head and zipping up his North Face jacket. Even Richie’s long legs can’t out-walk a jogging Eddie, who catches up to him easily by the time they reach the street corner. 

‘What the fuck?’ Eddie huffs. 

Richie doesn’t say anything but gives a curt wave of thanks to a driver who lets them walk. Richie crosses, Eddie follows. 

‘Trader Joes isn’t that way,’ He complains looking up to Richie, who stares straight ahead, face tight. 

‘Maybe we shouldn’t go to Trader Joes.’ Richie says. 

‘We have to get groceries!’ 

‘No, man- _we-_ we don’t have to do anything! _‘We’_ don’t have to do shit!’ 

‘Richie, fucking stop walking.’ Eddie demands. He does, for a second, then changes directions, heading towards Broadway not slowing his hurried pace and leaving Eddie in the lurch. ‘Dude, wait!’ 

Richie stops again and turns to face Eddie, his arms in an exaggerated shrug. ’Just- fuck off!’ 

They both still for a moment, before Richie runs a hand over his face. Eddie tries not to think of how dirty his hand is and how everything he had touched since the last time he had washed his hands was going to sink deep, deep, down into his pores and rot there. 

‘Okay,’ Richie says after what feels like forever. ‘Do you have a lighter?’ 

Eddie, who had been expecting an apology, says, ‘Do you realize who you’re talking to?’ 

‘Right…’ Richie’s voice trails off before a passing stranger grabs his attention, and he asks, ‘Hey, bud, do you got a light?’ The man shakes his head no before walking past them. 

‘Thanks anyway!’ Richie calls, turning his head. Eddie sees it as soon as Richie does- a woman standing on the corner, smoking a cigarette. Richie looks to the woman, then back to Eddie, then to the woman, and starts a half-jog up to her. By the time Eddie catches up, Richie has a lit cigarette and is thanking the woman.

‘You still smoke?’ Eddie asks as Richie turns away from her and keeps walking, Eddie trailing after him as he takes a drag.

‘Nope,’ Richie coughs through a garbled mouth of smoke. Once it clears, he keeps going. ‘Kicked it in my thirties cause’ I smelt like shit all the time, my fuckin’ girlfriend kept complaining. She said she’d stop having sex with me if I didn’t knock it off.’ 

‘Oh,’ A wounded Eddie mumbles. 

‘Yeah, a real bang-up pussy on that one.’ Richie says. ‘Bang-up cause’ we fucked constantly- just, tits, and pussy, and all of it. She’d suck me fucking raw. It’s a good thing I got a vasectomy because if not she’d have been pregnant a thousand-fucking-times. Angelica. Nearly married the bitch, just for the fucking.’ 

Rightfully disgusted, Eddie says, ‘Christ, Richie, are you done?’

They come up to another intersection, the pedestrian light red. Richie lets out another breath of smoke and Eddie tries not to think about getting cancer from the second-hand smoke- or the risk of Richie getting cancer from the first-hand smoke and Eddie has to hold back from smacking the stick right out of his hand, his own hands balling into fists.

‘You know what- you go to fucking Trader Joes, I’m going back to the apartment.’ 

‘Did I do something wrong?’ Eddie tries to say it as nice as possible, but it still comes out laced with anger. It doesn’t matter because Richie is already speeding off in the direction of their apartment, not even giving Eddie an answer. 

And you know what? If Richie wants to be alone, let him. Fine- but Eddie still makes sure to get his Lucky Charms- and the toothpaste he liked, because he was low and didn’t like Eddie’s natural one- Richie’s favourite was Crest. And, yeah, shopping is fucking boring without Richie making a joke every two seconds, Eddie thinks as he pushes his stupid little cart through the aisle. The wheel sticks at the front, dragging as Eddie tries to maneuver the cart, which makes this lonely experience even more miserable. 

Someone has to do it, otherwise, they’d starve. 

Maybe it had all been a little too good. Maybe it was only a matter of time before this all blew up in their faces. Eddie feels stupid for not seeing that, looking over a box of Pop-Tarts- the blueberry kind, the only type of Pop-Tart Richie would eat (thank fuck, they were practically radioactive)- and placing them in the shitty shopping cart.

‘Pop-Tarts? Really?’ A voice asks. 

She looks different outside of the Lawyer’s office. 

‘They’re for my room-mate.’ Eddie explains. 

‘You have a room-mate now?’ Myra asks, a slight laugh in her voice as she adjusts her lilac scarf. Eddie knows she got it when they visited her parents in Georgia. He’d been beside her in the store, full of trinkets and baubles. 

‘Yes…’ His voice trails off, looking her up and down. It’s her, in the flesh. 

A lull forms in the conversation as Myra does the same to him. Can she see that he’s been with someone else? Sure, a whiney over-grown kid, but that’s still someone that’s not her- and not even really ‘been with’, but calling what happened a ‘make-out sesh’ feels immature and- has- has she been with someone else? She’s standing differently, Eddie thinks.

‘How have you been?’ She asks, clutching a box of gluten-free crackers to her chest. 

There’s probably still a box buried in the back of the cupboard somewhere, from when Eddie used to get those crackers for her. 

‘Fine,’ Eddie manages. ‘I’ve been fine- how are you?’ 

Myra shrugs, presses a tight smile to her lips. 

In the following pause, Eddie thinks of all the questions he could ask: 

_Have you slept with someone new? Was it good? Were they better than me? Do you miss me?_

_Is this the right thing to do?_

_Somewhere, I still love you- do you still love me?_

_Are we making a mistake?_

_We were happy together, right? As happy as we could have been?_

_Did you know?_

_Was I bad to you?_

_Were you bad to me?_

_Could we have been better?_

_You wanted a husband who could protect you- did I?_

_Was I brave enough for you?_

_Did I let you down?_

Only no question falls from his mouth, only a silent, _I’m sorry._

_So am I,_ Myra returns, just as silent. 

She looks over her shoulder. Eddie looks to the ground. 

‘I’ll… I’ll see you in court, Eddie.’ She says.

‘Yeah, I’ll see you then.’ Eddie says. Myra nods fixes her grip on the box of crackers and turns to walk away. Eddie watches her go, and for the first time in a long time, doesn’t miss her. 

When Eddie gets back to the apartment, hauling three bags of groceries that would have been alot easier with a certain someone's help, Richie is sitting on the couch. He looks weird when he sits, as usual, because most furniture was built for normal height people and not six foot two giants, but he also looks fucking miserable. He glances at Eddie when he enters before going back to staring at nothing. 

_Hey, guess who I saw at the super-market?_

_I don’t care, go fuck yourself._

Eddie sighs and pushes the door closed with his foot before bringing the bags into the kitchen, saying nothing. Then he remembers. ‘ _Hey, man, we nearly fucking died less than five months ago so it’d be great if you could not give me the fucking silent treatment!’_ is the line Eddie decides on, walking into the living room, but when he turns the corner from the kitchen, Richie is standing right there and Eddie can’t even get his line out before Richie asks:

‘Did you get the blue-berry Pop-Tarts?’

‘Have you been crying?’ Eddie asks because up this close, chest to chest, his eyes look bleary. Richie shakes his head no, brushing past Eddie into the kitchen and looking through the bags. Alright, Richie, break the fucking grumpy mood to ask about your toaster strudels, you dense fuck. Eddie takes a deep breath to calm himself, his throat itching as he does it. 

‘You know you can talk to me, right?’ Eddie says, trying to sound as calm and chill as he can manage, even though he feels like punching a hole through the drywall. 

Yeah, he and Myra had been… whatever they had been, they would speak to each other about their problems, you know? Sure, most of the time they would end up yelling, but at least it got out there and into the open, for better or worse. 

With Richie, though, (which is still weird to think about him being on a level of relationship comparable to Myra, but relationship isn’t the right word here. They hadn’t even spoken about what had happened since they got back, and it’d been a whole, unbearable three days) by some grand twist of irony, it was like pulling _fucking_ teeth- the comedian who would never shut up finally decides to be quiet!

Richie, still wearing his baseball cap, looks up from the grocery bags and seriously says, ‘I have a psychiatrist to talk to.’

‘ _Jesusfuckingchrist_ I am going to fucking explode- here, okay, get this! I _want_ you to talk to me!’ Eddie lets out. He can’t stop himself from saying more. ‘I want you to tell me what’s going on with you! Like, I think we’re getting somewhere, and then you just pretend nothing ever happened! After the hospital- after Stan’s place!’ 

‘Okay, man, you’re yelling at me, and that is not chill-‘ 

‘I’m worried about you, okay!’ 

‘You don’t have to be!’ 

‘Are you.. are you fucking serious, Richie?’ 

‘Yeah- yes, I’m fucking serious.’ 

‘Okay, because you say that, but then you collapse on your bedroom floor and think you’re dying, and then you say you’re in love with me, so you’re _gay_ , and how long has that been with you, dude? Because I know that it’s kept me up every single fucking night of my life-‘ 

‘I’m not…’ Richie wavers then continues, decided. ‘I’m not gay.’ 

‘Right,’ Eddie laughs. ‘Okay, so we’re just gonna be in complete denial?’ 

‘And look who’s talking!’ Richie shouts, his voice moving up an octave and pointing a finger at Eddie. ‘Holy shit, look who’s talking!’ 

‘What the fuck are you talking about? I’m ready to be with you, man!’ 

‘No, no, no! With your mom- she fucking fucked you up-‘

‘-you think I’m fucked up?’ 

‘-and you won’t even realize that! Why not, Eddie? She’s dead! _She’s gone_! She can’t fucking touch you anymore!’ 

‘I think you’re angry and you’re deflecting onto me.’ Eddie crosses his arms. Richie does the same from across the island, letting out a loud groan. 

‘I think you’re a fucking asshole,’ Richie responds, a manic laugh around the words. 

‘Yeah, and I thought you loved me.’ Eddie spits back, but it doesn’t come out with much fire. 

‘I do!’ Richie yells. ‘I do love you, asshole! You fucking make my life worth living and you remember all my favourite things and you kiss like a fucking angel! Whenever I look at you, all I can think about is how much- how fucking much- I love you! It’s _terrifying_! Like- I’m fucking choking, man, and- fuck!’ Richie, whose hands had been searching through one of the grocery bags, slams it back down onto the counter. Something shatters. 

‘I- I fucking love you too, dick!’ Eddie says.

‘No- no, you don’t-‘ 

‘I do.’ Eddie insists, because he really, really does. 

‘-you don’t. You can’t. I’m not- you’re not- it’s just- not. Which sucks! It really does! Because you think you can, and you can…kiss… me back, and you can think it’s okay, but it’s not, because I’m me, and you’re you, and I’m not-’ 

‘What the fuck does any of that even mean?’ Eddie whines. 

‘I’m a piece of shit! You're not!’Richie lets out before he sinks down to the floor, disappearing behind the island. Eddie moves to find him, Richie’s head between his knees. He sits down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

Richie lets out a shaky breath. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘You apologize a lot,’ Eddie says, as an attempt at a joke. Richie lets out a sob. ‘Shit, no, dude, no you don’t- it’s fine, hey, no, don’t cry-‘ 

Richie laughs, but then another cry wracks through his body. 

‘Hey, buddy, just-‘ 

‘Don’t c-call me buddy, I fucking nutted my p-pants over you,’ Richie pushes out through the sniffles. Which makes him laugh again, which makes him cry again. Eddie squeezes his shoulder. 

Things fall quiet, more or less- the fridge thrumming, the growl of the subway passing, Richie’s sniffles. Eddie can see from the floor- which, gross, by the way- that the jar of organic marmalade had been shattered in the plastic bag, from Richie shoving it. That’s okay, though- it’s okay. 

‘You’re not a piece of shit.’ Eddie says as soon as he thinks Richie is ready to listen.

Richie shakes his head. ‘I killed someone.’ 

‘You killed Henry Bowers, a racist homophobe, who was attacking our friend. You saved Mike’s life.’ 

Feebly, Richie shakes his head again. 

‘You saved my life, you saved Mike’s life, and you’re my hero, man. You always have been, you always will be.’ 

‘You don’t know half the shit I’ve done, Eddie,’ Richie says, lifting his head to look to him. He’s not wrong. Maybe in some other life, one where they hadn’t forgotten, they would have been together for that gap. Maybe they’d have figured everything out and they wouldn’t be forty years old and sitting on the kitchen floor, which is hurting Eddie’s back. 

‘Catch me up, then.’ Eddie says. 

‘It’ll take another twenty-seven years, man.’ Richie laughs, wiping at his eyes. He realizes his hat has been on this whole time and takes it off, running a hand through his hair reminding Eddie of when dogs shake their fur to reset themselves- not that he had ever owned a dog, but Myra’s sister had a dopey basset hound who Eddie wasn’t allowed to pet. 

‘It’s worth it, for you. I wouldn’t be sitting on the dirty fucking kitchen floor for just anyone.’ 

‘Aw, geez,’ Richie covers his face with his hat. ’You cheesy motherfucker, you must really love me.’ 

Eddie reaches out and pulls the hat away from Richie’s face- he’s blushing. ‘I do, Richie.’ 

Before Richie even has the chance to object or crack a joke, Eddie presses a kiss against his lips. He’s still like he had been during their first kiss, and if Eddie hadn’t been so bewildered by the thought of them kissing, he’d have been annoyed that it wasn’t more or if he’d been in a more lucid, un-love struck state, he'd make a jab at Richie for not knowing how to kiss— but this, this is still _so_ good, because it’s him. Eddie can be patient, he figures- he’d made it this far. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed!!!
> 
> i love this fight scene because it really is just them telling each-other they care about them and they are both stubborn and dumb 
> 
> and fun game: pinpoint the exact moment richie got upset in the diner because it's not where u think it is im sure (or at least i hope because otherwise i'm failing in terms of tactics/motivations) 
> 
> other things to say hmmmm - some of the stuff in this chapter was repurposed from a deleted one, so im glad im too shy to post one shots otherwise i would have had to find some new emotional stuff to dig through - and what is wack is that i've written more since September, creatively, than the past three years combined and i can see the improvement which is very nice 
> 
> what else 
> 
> YES! thank u to everyone who has been commenting and kudo-ing etcetera etcetra y'all keep me going and make me very very smiley and happy thank u all beyond words its nice to know that people are enjoying this rather than just seeing the hits go up and not knowing what/who they r from or if they are even reading so thank you so so so much for your support!!! <3 <3 <3 !!!


	12. The Maternal Intermission/Let's Talk About Ex, Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: past-homophobia, internalized homophobia as well, mentions of past drug/alcohol abuse

** The Maternal Intermission  **

Maggie Tozier had never wanted a son. When the ultrasound technician had confirmed what she dreaded, her lower lip started to wobble. 

‘It’s a child, Mags,’ Wentworth had said, her hand in his. ‘And he’s healthy, and he’s growing.’ 

Maggie, who had been raised to not fall into hysterics, bursts into sobs. 

Richie had been told the story by a wine-drunk Auntie May when he was nine, and it kinda stuck around. That, and the time his mother explained that love was completely conditional when he was twelve years old and had broken the newly done windows- she was not obliged to love him just by the fact of being his mother, which is just what every insecure twelve year old wants to hear. 

There’s maybe the smallest inkling of the thought that somehow, Maggie Tozier had somehow gotten her girl after all. Her little twelve year old did like boys after all, and isn’t that what little girls do? Chase after the boys, wink and blush, giggle and scream? That’s a fucked up idea, isn’t it? It’s still there though, a gazillion years later. 

She had even picked out the name for her girl- Ruth, or Ruthie, if she was being sweet. She had stitched it into one of Richie’s baby blankets before she had gotten the bad news and the child’s room had to be repainted that damned baby boy blue. 

Richie didn’t know the bit about Ruth until he’d been scrounging around in the attic looking for his lost rolling papers, coming across a tidy little box. He had for a second thought that he’d had a sister who died based on the way the box was organized like a shrine, before knowing better. 

The slip of the tongue had only ever happened once, anyway. Besides, she did love him. They managed to get along swell and Richie even turned into a bit of a momma’s boy, clinging to the hem of her dress and following her about the house all day. 

Maggie thought of herself as progressive. She had run off with the Jewish boy and gone to college, she was a modern woman. She knew how to change a tire and loved thin cigarettes and taught her son how to cook. She read Du Beauvoir before bed and hoped for a world where everyone could just get along. 

One summer evening, Richie came home to find his mother cooking dinner, the TV playing in the living room to no audience. Like a moth to the flame, Richie wandered in and sat down next to it. Men- sickly men, with skeletons for bodies, tried their hardest to speak. Holding their hand wasn’t a wife to comfort them, other men held their hands. Lovers, they called themselves. Richie was transfixed for a reason he couldn’t even begin to articulate. 

‘Turn that off, Richie.’ Maggie demanded, suddenly behind him. She looked cross, pale in the light of the television. When he didn’t move, she turns it off for him. He was too young to see something so awful. 

The last time she had seen her son before she died, they had fought. He had flunked out of college, lied to her face, and continued to steal money for the next three years to spend on a dream that wasn’t working and to blow on drugs. He looked like a stranger- hollow eyes, and where what had once been that lean boy was a skinny, unfamiliar man. 

She said the one thing she had never said out loud that day, in the dry heat of a scream-fight. 

_I never wanted you._

** Let’s Talk About Ex, Baby **

Richie had a knack for IKEA furniture. He may have an anxiety attack every morning, and he may be human garbage, but he could set up a KALLAX like no other- not a shitty plastic screw out of place. That was something to be proud of (even Dr. Katz agreed). His KALLAX sits next to his desk and has those little square containers that you can pull out and dump all your shit in, also from IKEA. There was a lot of stuff. Eddie didn’t come in his room often and Richie didn’t ask him to- he could see the way Eddie’s eyes would scan, assessing every error in the space. Richie included. 

On that KALLAX sit Richie’s Justice League figures. Six of them, in their retro styles, as if they had jumped off the first print editions. Richie had got them his first year of college and slapped them into his dorm— yeah, he was a _real_ lady killer. 

‘You were engaged?’ Eddie asks, still scanning him but trying his hardest to not make any judgements. 

Richie thinks back to that press tour he had to do one time. Number seven on the call sheet, but still had to go and do interviews at eight in the morning. You’d talk about yourself, you’d talk about _your work_ and _your process_ (which Richie doesn’t have, he just _does_ it _)_ , your _girlfriends_ , how you ruined Fallon’s New Years party, even though that was _days_ ago now and people should really be over that, shouldn’t they? 

How Eddie can still sit comfortably in a four-point check blows Richie’s mind, who has to adjust every few seconds on the bed- but he’s sitting on Richie’s bed, which he hadn’t done since they were kids. 

Richie’s bedroom is kinda gross, Richie discovers, once it’s looked at through Eddie’s eyes. The posters he had slapped up on move-in day were only hanging onto the wall by the good-will of the blue sticky tac, and just barely staying up. His desk had what looked like a thousand plates piled up on it and Richie couldn’t remember the last time he had washed his bedsheets. The PAX might be sporting a sheer coat of mould. 

Eddie’s room, in comparison, was a hospital. The bedsheets tucked with tight edges, every surface sanitized to ground zero and not a single thing out of place. Back in Derry, in Eddie’s bedroom, Richie remembered that it had been neat, but still, like, the place of a kid. There’d be action figures lying on the floor and stickers slapped on whatever sticky surface he could reach (he was short even then, little fucker). It didn’t feel like a change for the better, though, Richie thinks. But then again, look at his state- who was he to talk? 

‘Engaged three times, but two of those times it was to the same person, so it doesn’t count as three times,’ Richie answers. He looks down at his hand, wrapped up with Eddie’s and runs his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles. ‘So, I’m not a total-heart breaker.’ 

‘Who? Why? When?’ Rapid-fire Eddie, as always. Eddie as the automatic rifle, piercing through the thus far bullet-proof shields Richie had been maintaining his entire life. _Blow ‘em down boys!_

‘When- the most recent one was six years ago- why, because it felt like the right thing to do at the moment, for her, us, and she was,’ Richie has to let out a deep breath. ‘She was cool.’ 

Ila Nakamura, draped in tiger print and who looked fine as hell in a blazer. Professional stylist. She’d light his joints for him, he’d keep her on the payroll. Rocky from the start but not Richie’s worst relationship by far. When her father passed away they went on a two-day bender in Ohio- glamorous, he knows - and Richie had proposed as the sun rose on day two. Cut to a year later, with not a single wedding plan on the horizon, she told Richie to tie the knot or cut that shit off. He chose the latter. 

‘Did you love her?’ Eddie asks, looking to Richie’s face. 

‘I think… there are maybe different ways, of loving people, you know?’ 

‘But did you love her?’ Eddie presses. Is… is he jealous? 

‘In a way, I guess, like, Plato says that there are different types-‘ 

‘Did you have sex with her?’ 

‘You’d be a good police interrogator, you know that?’ 

‘Yeah, I do. Thanks.’ 

‘Of course we had sex, we were together, like, three and a half years.’ 

‘I didn’t have sex with Myra until we were married.’ 

‘How long was that?’ Richie asks, knowing full well what he’s doing- deflect, deflect, _deflect_. He hates himself for doing it. Sorry, Eddie- sorry, Dr. Katz. 

Eddie doesn’t even have to think: ‘Five years. We dated for five years.’ 

The only reason that Richie has the balls to ask the following question is because, in this moment, Eddie was more friend than lover (but do know that the lover part of things was still heavily threaded through the question and Richie was trying his best to keep his imagination clean and pure, even though the thought of more was begging to come out): ’Have you… have you ever slept with someone that wasn’t her?’ 

‘No.’ Eddie says, simple and final. 

‘Not even in college?’ 

‘Nope.’ 

‘What the fuck?’ 

‘Yeah! Right?’ Eddie laughs. 

‘Did you ever _want_ to?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘To sleep with someone that wasn’t her?’ 

‘Yes.’ Eddie says. Eddie at the Jade of the Orient, eyes dark with a near shattering grip on his one glass of white wine. _Let's take our shirts off and kiss!_ Sometimes things click a few months later after you’ve seen someone’s face as they're below you, pushing up against you. Richie raises his eyebrows at Eddie.

‘I wouldn’t, dude, never. That’d be such a dick move, man.’ Eddie adds on. 

‘How’d you survive? Like, how did your dick not freeze and fall off?’ 

Eddie clears his throat and answers, ‘How do you think, dude?’ 

‘I don’t know!’ Richie raises his arms up in defence. ‘You’re blushing, why are you blushing, Eds? I truly have no clue! What- oh my god, Eddie, did you… did you _masturbate_?’ 

‘Fuck you, man,’ Eddie says and Richie chuckles, putting his hands down and reconnecting them with Eddie’s. His hands are actually kinda tough for a guy who works a white-collar job. Not tough, like calloused, but you can feel each crease in his skin, dried out from the constant disinfectants. When Richie lifts Eddie’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of his hand he can smell the Purell.

‘Your mom really hated me, didn’t she?’ Richie asks. 

‘Maybe she knew.’ Eddie says. 

Yeah, maybe she did. Sonia’s sweet, fragile son whisked away by a reckless half-Jew queer who talked to loud, swore too much, and was pollution for the ‘pureness’ of her kid. It was a delicate eco-system to keep intact- an atmosphere doused with fake sickness, and an ocean laced with manipulation, all totalling to the near-complete destruction of a human being.

‘I’d spit on her grave if I knew where it was.’ Richie offers. 

‘You’d have to go back to Derry.’ 

‘I’d do it for you.’ Richie says, and he means it. 

‘I also don’t want you to spit on my mother’s grave, thanks.’ 

They both know they could go down this road again, Eddie Defends His Mother Street intersecting with She Hurt You, Why Won’t You Realize Lane, but they had already fought today. 

_Yeah,_ Richie realizes, _We fought. We had a fight. The way mom and dad used to._

Richie’s mom, whenever she got in a fight with Wentworth, would say that they were just ‘caring loudly’. They did love each other. Richie knows that from the way his father would look at his mother as if she was the entire world. _My father’s a romantic, it runs in the family._

‘In the diner, today, were you mad at me?’ Eddie asks, pulling Richie from his train of thought. 

‘I’m not mad at you,’ Richie answers, feeling weirdly small. Like when the doctor would ask him a question and then he’d have to look to his mom for the answer. She’d give Richie the same look back, wondering why her chatter-box was clamming up. The doctor was scary. 

‘But were you?’ 

‘I mean- yeah. Kinda, a little bit. Not really.’ 

‘Kinda?’ 

‘Like, I- shit, I asked you out and you pretty much said no.’ Richie wills his heart to stop racing, but it doesn’t seem like it’s planning on listening to him anytime soon. 

‘What? What are you talking about?’ Eddie asks the confusion showing on his brow. 

‘I asked if you wanted to go to the botanical gardens with me and you said you didn’t have any time?’ Richie reminds, feeling the same confusion as Eddie. ‘Are you gas-lighting me or something?’ 

‘No, what? What does that even mean? I thought you just wanted to hang out!’ 

‘Well, yeah, but at the botanical gardens.’ 

‘So do you want to hang out, or are you asking me out?’ 

‘I’m… you know, I am.’ 

‘You’re what?’ Eddie seems frustrated, which is weird because Richie is the one who was supposed to be mad. ‘Because if you want to ask… me out, then, for both of us, I think, you need to be able to say that.’ 

‘I already said that I love you,’ Richie defends. 

‘Okay, well, as someone who has been married twelve years, a relationship- if that’s even a thing you want, uh, with me- but I could tell Myra I loved her, forever and forever, but she wouldn’t believe me until I did something about it- not that I don’t believe you, but-‘ 

‘Well, you had a sham of a fucking marriage.’ Richie says before he can think not too, dropping Eddie’s hands. 

‘Yeah, okay, like you’ve ever had a real fucking relationship.’ Eddie shoots back, and yeah, it stings so Richie lets out a nasty laugh. Then a real laugh, because yeah, he’s right. 

Twelve girlfriends. Two and a half fiancés. A forgotten amount of hook-ups and fuck-buddies lost to the blocked caller list and alcohol-infused nights. One first love in the form of Eddie Kaspbrak, who had a spot in his heart on lockdown, right next to his left atrium, since day one. He’d do anything for him- walk on glass barefoot, defeat a fucking monster (twice), and the worst thing of all, let him know how he feels, the stupid-motherfucker who didn’t even realize he was getting asked out the first time. 

‘Okay- will you, Eddie, light of my life, fire of my loins-

‘Lolita? That’s fucking disgusting-‘ 

‘I thought it was kinda hot-‘ 

‘Move out.’ 

‘Kidding.’ Richie grins, before taking back Eddie’s hand. ‘Listen- will you go on a date with me? And… I can’t say that it’ll be any good, or that I won’t, like, flip, but, yeah- yeah, okay, will you go on a date with me to the stupid fucking botanical gardens?’ 

‘If you’re asking me does that make me the woman?’ 

’I- I think… Um, isn’t the point, you know, kinda that we’re both,’ Richie struggles, the reality beginning to crystallize. ‘Uh- men, right?’

‘I’m teasing you, dude.’ 

‘Right, yeah, I knew that, totally- totally know how things work.’

‘Yeah, I’ll go on a date with you. Why didn’t you ask me sooner?’ 

‘Is that rhetorical, or do you wanna know? Because you had a wife and I was-’ 

‘Rhetorical. I’m still fucking with you, man.’ Eddie says with a chuckle. 

A thousand dirty jokes bubble up to the surface of Richie’s brain, but none make their way out. It’s real now. Eddie’s hand on his, it’s not a dream, it’s real— and this is something real and this isn’t the deadlights, that’s there’s such a thing as want. Richie knows that from the way Eddie is looking at him.

‘If we’re gonna be, like, communicating, I think you need to know that, as much as I wanna jump your bones and ravish you,’ Richie can’t believe he’s fucking saying that. ‘I think I need to, like, take things slow-ish, if that’s okay.’ 

‘Yeah, no, that’s fine- that’s totally fine.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ 

Eddie gives pause. ’How slow?’ 

‘I don’t know, not exactly a snail, but definitely not light-speed?’ Richie offers. Eddie nods, but Richie feels guilt wash over him, ice cold. Like the time he had done that Ice Bucket Challenge thing at the behest of his publicist. ‘We don’t have to be, like, exclusive, right now, if you’re, ah, ready now. For that. Because- I’m- I don’t think that can be me, right now.’ 

‘What, I’m just gonna hop on Grindr and go fuck the closest guy I can find?’ Eddie says, an empty laugh in his voice. Richie kinda wants to put his hands to his ears and go _la-la-la I can’t hear you!_ because the thought of Eddie with anyone else sucks ass, but Richie shouldn’t be the reason for the guy not getting laid. 

The dude in Richie still pretending to be straight, decked out in sunglasses and a wife-beater, a beer can in hand gruffly asks _what’s Grindr? Is that for hash?_ but they’re a little far past that point now, he figures. Once you’ve come in your pants by just making out with a guy it gets significantly harder to pretend to be straight. 

_‘_ If that’s what you want, yeah, I guess.’ Richie manages to get out, that sense of being tiny coming back. He sounds tiny too, the way his voice struggles to push itself into audible waves and his throat closing in on itself. 

_Everyone, all together! Even smaller now!_

‘I wouldn’t be mad if you did.’ 

Eddie lets out a short sigh. 

_Tinier, even!_

‘I wouldn’t even be mad, Eddie.’ 

‘Okay, here’s the thing- I’ve been head over heels for you my entire life, dumbass.’ Eddie says. ‘I can’t even imagine doing this with anyone but you, and I want it to be you.’ 

‘Me?’ Richie asks. 

‘Yes,’ Eddie confirms with a nod. ‘As soon as you’re ready.’ 

‘Okay, but what if that’s never?’ Richie proposes, because that could very well be a possibility. Spend forty years stunted, remember you have feelings for your best friend, begin some second sexual awakening- the first one took a good thirteen years, so he’d probably be in his fifties before he could even manage to… y’know. 

‘I’m in this with you, you know? This is new for me, too.’ 

‘I can’t believe you’ve been in my room for half an hour without gagging-’

‘Hey, listen. You’re not alone.’ 

‘Okay,’ Richie agrees. Eddie takes him by the neck and sticks their foreheads to one another’s. He’s smiling, so Richie smiles too. ‘Do you think Mike and Bill are fucking?’ 

‘Bill has a wife.’ Eddie points out. 

‘So did you!’ Richie also points out, which makes Eddie slap his chest. Richie falls back onto his pillows and Eddie follows, curling into Richie’s side, like the way Stan’s puzzle pieces would just fit together. They’re quiet for a second, before a half-joke half-concern pops into Richie’s head. 

‘Should I delete my Tinder?’ He asks, looking to Eddie who looks back up at him. 

‘You have Tinder?’ 

‘Celebrity Tinder, yeah. It’s a lot of models, I was kinda out of place.’ 

‘I always forget you’re famous.’ 

‘Yeah, me too,’ Richie sticks his nose into Eddie’s hair. ‘But then Jason’ll forward me the TMZ article about when I pissed my pants at LAX, and I remember.’ 

‘You should delete your Tinder, I think,’ Eddie says, and Richie’s phone is already pulled out of his pocket and in his hand in an instant, unlocked (passcode: 6969) and thumb hovering over the little black and gold icon. ‘Wait, show me your profile first?’ 

‘No fucking way, it’s embarrassing.’

‘You pissed your pants in an airport, how bad could this be?’ Eddie begs, grabbing a fistful of Richie’s shirt, and fuck, Eddie really didn’t know what he was doing, did he? Richie’s collar tightens around his neck from the pulled fabric reminds him of a kink he forgot he had and a libido he hadn’t seen since he was thirteen- 

‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’ Richie manages to squeak out, opening the app and swiping to show his profile. Eddie takes the phone in both hands, sitting up and laughing. 

‘Who the fuck did this work on?’ He asks, clicking through the pictures. Eddie shows Richie the picture of him naked except for a plastic pink flamingo he was holding over his junk, as if he hadn’t already seen it a thousand times. It was a screenshot of one of his special’s promo image, lazily applied to his profile. _Look, I’m funny- I’m famous._

‘Emma Stone, actually- we went on a very nice date and never spoke to each-other again afterwards, so, yeah, fuck you.’ 

‘Can you send this to me? I want to make it my lock-screen-’ Eddie holds up the photo of Richie pretending to take a dump. Oh, and there’s the photo of Richie on the red carpet, a Golden Globe in his sweaty fist. ‘Oh my god, do you not know how to stand? You look like a fucking scarecrow!’ 

‘Nobody ever teaches you how to pose for red-carpets, man, it’s overwhelming- everyone is yelling, there’s lights flashing, and you took an edible an hour before and you’re worrying about when it’s gonna kick in,’ Richie rambles. ‘It’s the sad reality of fame.’ 

‘You are so cool,’ Eddie says, handing back Richie’s phone and laying back down next to him. Richie’s not sure if he’s being sarcastic. ‘No- you are!’ 

‘I’m a dork,’ He objects. Eddie’s hand works its way onto his scalp, gently threading his fingers through Richie’s hair. The tingles shoot all the way down into his toes. 

‘When you showed up in Derry I didn’t even recognize you.’ Eddie supplies, as if that was some proof of his alleged cool-ness. 

‘Hm, maybe that had something to do with our fucked memories-‘ 

‘No, not even. You just kinda grew up, into yourself, and I was still wearing the same polo from when I was thirteen, you know what I mean?’ 

‘I was still wearing a pattered button-up, so yeah. Then there’s this ‘average’ height, handsome man in front of me, with these big fuckin’ brown eyes and this stupid cardigan-‘ 

‘Mike?’ 

‘Yup, Mike. Average height Mike. Totally in love with Mike. Sorry, bud.’ Richie goofs, and then Eddie looks hurt. ‘Oh, no, Eddie, I’m totally kidding, holy shit, it’s you, it’s always been you, literally I’ve never fucking felt like this for anyone else-‘ 

‘You’re so fucking gullible, man,’ Eddie laughs and Richie unclenches his entire being. 

‘That’s because I trust you with my fuckin’ life!’ Richie shoots back, smiling. 

‘Same goes, dick-wad! And my cardigan wasn’t fucking stupid, I got it at Eddie Bauer, it was cool- you’re stupid and fuck you.’ 

‘Remember how you used to write your name on all your fucking clothes with Sharpie? In case they got lost? How would you lose your clothes if you were wearing them, it was so fucking dumb-‘ 

‘Check my shirt tag.’ Eddie demands, sitting up. 

Richie pushes himself up and looks at Eddie’s back. Today it was a pastel yellow polo. It was always a pastel polo, but damn if he didn’t make them look sexy as hell. Richie reaches out to his back, cautious, and gingerly works his finger under Eddie’s collar and flips out the tag. In Eddie’s shitty handwriting, it’s his fucking name. Edward K. 

‘Dude, like, who the fuck is gonna steal your fucking polos?’ Richie groans. 

‘It’s fucking New York, you don’t know what the fuck is going to happen! There’s gangs, and there’s muggers-‘ 

‘Oh no.’ 

‘What? Oh no, what?’ 

‘Lookout! Here comes a fucking mugger!’ Richie exclaims, grabbing at the bottom of Eddie’s shirt who starts trying to squirm away, but Richie just laughs and holds him in place. ‘I’m gonna jack your fuckin’ twenty-five dollar shirt, asshole!’ 

‘Fuck you!’ Eddie shoots. ‘It’s fuckin’ thirty-five dollars, dick-ass!’ 

‘Dick-ass? _Dick-ass_? Really?’ 

‘Fuck you, mother-fucker, fucking unhand me-‘ 

‘Hey- hey, calm down, listen. Eddie, listen. Listen, Eds, this is serious-‘ Richie asks. Eddie stills his struggling for a second, turning to look at Richie from the corner of his eye. ‘Are you still ticklish?’ Richie asks. The hand resting on Eddie’s side twitches, and before Richie can even make contact, Eddie elbows him in the side. Eddie cackles with victory as Richie recedes. ‘That counts as domestic abuse, now, I think, and I’m gonna sue you.’ 

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’d like to see you try.’ 

‘I can get my lawyers on the phone right now, if you want-‘ Richie reaches for his cellphone again and Eddie turns and grabs his arm, stopping him cold. 

‘One court case is enough, thanks,’ Eddie says, accompanied by a dry smile. Eddie’s fingers wrap around his forearm, all the way around Richie’s arm in a way no girl’s ever had. 

Richie feels a question grow at the tip of his tongue- something gets in the way. 

It’s that instinct of repression that had over-ridden the instinct of being himself and it jumps onto his tongue and holds on, begging to be heard, acknowledged- it can tell that it’s getting kicked to the curb, which is never a good feeling, Richie understands, trust him, but they’d been together so fucking long he had forgotten how to feel good- or even just _okay_ \- about himself. And maybe he shouldn’t swallow something so toxic, but if he were to spit now, Eddie would be disgusted. 

So, down you go bud, all the way down. He’ll shit you out and not even look before flushing. Good fucking riddance. Swallowed, there’s nothing to stop Richie- except a painful shit somewhere down the line, but, hey, outta sight, outta mind. 

‘D’ya wanna try making out again, maybe?’ Richie asks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 and a half chapters heheheh
> 
> i only proof-read three times but im sick of staring at this one so here we go 
> 
> i wrote two intermissions bcuz we r at the halfway point now and i kinda know where i want this to finish but also not really but i also thought it was interesting!! i've taken the naturalist angle to this fic and i think its important- as well as richie's connection to aids (also i'm so remarkably glad to have grown up queer not in the 80s ((just the wacky 00's-10's)) holey moley) because its now not so much about the illness, like i think it is w/ eddie, but the connection w/ doom. like, the first time you see someone like you on TV, they're dying because they're like you
> 
> the unfortunate conflation of gender/sexuality for richie that he's mostly grown out of  
> \+ eddie doesn't know what gas-lighting is, which isn't even touched on but sticks out to me 
> 
> both such 'in-progress' people- at least they are trying and are still happy w/ each-other :) 
> 
> i have to be at class in twenty minutes but i'd rather be here writing a small essay on everything here lmao ok
> 
> sorry for the long break between now and the last chapter, life got wild and now we back in school so things are gonna be slower but anyways anyways
> 
> thank u so much for reading and kudo-ing and all the comments on the last chapter were very sweet and made me smile like a geek for days !! <3 <3 <3 i cannot thank u enough for the support, it really brightened up some harsh days 
> 
> oke doke peace n luv be good


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